The
Universal Shift of Consciousness
Third
Lot of Books by
Carlos
Castaneda
You
are not Your Physical Body; You are Not the Physical Matter: You are
Energy! And Everything what happened to You, happened for One Good
Reason: to Merge Your Energy with the Energies of Others, with the
Energies of Earths, with the Energies of Universes! The Culmination of
this Mixing Process for this Universe will be in December 2013: the
Final Stage of the Universal Shift!
Link
to Site Map listing other articles, books and useful
websites:
SITE
MAP
Any
material inc. pictures can be
taken from this website!
Carlos
Castaneda
"Tales of Power"
Fourth book in the series.
Index:
Part 1: A Witness to the Acts of Power
1. An Appointment With
Knowledge............................................5
2. The Dreamer And the
Dreamed...............................................31
3. The Secret of The Luminous
Beings........................................46
Part 2: The Tonal and the Nagual
4. Having to
Believe.....................................................................59
5. The Island of The
Tonal...........................................................67
6. Shrinking the
Tonal..................................................................83
7. In Nagual's
Time......................................................................92
8. The Whispering of The
Nagual..............................................102
9. The Wings of Perception
.......................................................111
Part 3: The Sorcerers' Explanation
10. Three Witnesses to The
Nagual............................................119
11. The Strategy of a
Sorcerer....................................................128
12. The Bubble of
Perception.....................................................145
13. The Predileciton of Two
Warriors........................................154
2
Scanned by Ovix (ControlledFolly@gmail.com)
The conditions of a solitary bird are five:
The first, that it flies to the highest point;
the second, that it does not suffer for company,
not even of its own kind;
the third, that it aims its beak to the skies;
the fourth, that it does not have a definite color;
the fifth, that it sings very softly.
- San Juan de la Cruz, Dichos de Luz y Amor
3
Part 1: A Witness
to Acts of Power
4
1. An Appointment With
Knowledge
I had not seen don Juan for several months. It was the autumn of 1971.
I had the certainty
that he was at don Genaro's house in central Mexico and made the
necessary preparations for a
six- or seven-day drive to visit him. On the second day of my journey,
however, on an impulse, I
stopped at don Juan's place in Sonora in the midafternoon. I parked my
car and walked a short
distance to the house. To my surprise, I found him there.
"Don Juan! I didn't expect to find you here," I said.
He laughed; my surprise seemed to delight him. He was sitting on an
empty milk crate by the
front door. He appeared to have been waiting for me. There was an air
of accomplishment in the
ease with which he greeted me. He took off his hat and flourished it in
a comical gesture. Then
he put it on again and gave me a military salute. He was leaning
against the wall, sitting on the
crate as if it were a saddle.
"Sit down, sit down," he said in a jovial tone. "Good to see you again."
"I was going to go all the way to central Mexico for nothing," I said.
"And then I would've
had to drive back to Los Angeles. Finding you here has saved me days
and days of driving."
"Somehow you would've found me," he said in a mysterious tone, "but
let's say that you owe
me the six days that you would've needed to get there, days which you
should use in doing
something more interesting than pressing down on the gas pedal of your
car."
There was something engaging in don Juan's smile. His warmth was
contagious.
"Where's your writing gear?" he asked.
I told him that I had left it in the car; he said that I looked
unnatural without it and made me
go back and get it.
"I have finished writing a book," I said.
He gave me a long, strange look that produced an itching in the pit of
my stomach. It was as
if he were pushing my middle section with a soft object. I felt like I
was going to get ill, but then
he turned his head to the side and I regained my original feeling of
well-being.
I wanted to talk about my book but he made a gesture that indicated
that he did not want me
to say anything about it. He smiled. His mood was light and charming
and he immediately
engaged me in a casual conversation about people and current events.
Finally I managed to steer
the conversation onto the topic of my interest. I began by mentioning
that I had reviewed my
early notes and had realized that he had been giving me a detailed
description of the sorcerers'
world from the beginning of our association. In light of what he had
said to me in those stages, I
had begun to question the role of hallucinogenic plants.
"Why did you make me take those power plants so many times?" I asked.
He laughed and mumbled very softly, "'Cause you're dumb."
I heard him the first time, but I wanted to make sure and pretended I
had not understood.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You know what I said," he replied and stood up.
He tapped me on the head as he walked by me.
"You're rather slow," he said. "And there was no other way to jolt you."
"So none of that was absolutely necessary?" I asked.
"It was, in your case. There are other types of people, however, that
do not seem to need
them."
He stood next to me, staring at the top of the bushes by the left side
of his house; then he sat
down again and talked about Eligio, his other apprentice. He said that
Eligio had taken
psychotropic plants only once since he became his apprentice, and yet
he was perhaps even more
5
advanced than I was.
"To be sensitive is a natural condition of certain people," he said.
"You are not. But neither
am I. In the final analysis sensitivity matters very little."
"What's the thing that matters then?" I asked.
He seemed to search for an appropriate answer.
"What matters is that a warrior be impeccable," he finally said. "But
that's only a way of
talking, a way of beating around the bush. You have already
accomplished some tasks of sorcery
and I believe this is the time to mention the source of everything that
matters. So I will say that
what matters to a warrior is arriving at the totality of oneself."
"What is the totality of oneself, don Juan?"
"I said that I was only going to mention it. There are still a lot of
loose ends in your life that
you must tie together before we can talk about the totality of oneself."
He ended our conversation there. He made a gesture with his hands to
signal that he wanted
me to stop talking. Apparently there was something or somebody nearby.
He tilted his head to
the left, as if to listen. I could see the whites of his eyes as he
focused on the bushes beyond the
house to his left. He listened attentively for a few moments and then
stood up, came to me and
whispered in my ear that we had to leave the house and go for a walk.
"Is there something wrong?" I asked, also in a whisper.
"No. Nothing is wrong," he said. "Everything is rather right."
He led me into the desert chaparral. We walked for perhaps half an hour
and then came to a
small circular area free from vegetation, a spot about twelve feet in
diameter where the reddish
dirt was packed and perfectly flat. There were no signs, however, that
machinery had cleared and
flattened the area. Don Juan sat down in the center of it, facing the
southeast. He pointed to a
place about five feet away from him and asked me to sit there, facing
him.
"What are we going to do here?" I asked.
"We have an appointment here tonight," he replied.
He scanned the surroundings with a quick glance, turning around on his
seat until he was
again facing the southeast.
His movements had alarmed me. I asked him who we had the appointment
with.
"With knowledge," he said. "Let's say that knowledge is prowling around
here."
He did not let me hook on to that cryptic answer. He quickly changed
the subject and in a
jovial tone he urged me to be natural, that is, to take notes and talk
as we would have done at his
house.
What was most pressing on my mind at that time was the vivid sensation
I had had six
months before, of "talking" to a coyote. That event meant to me that
for the first time I had been
capable of visualizing or apprehending, through my senses and in sober
consciousness, the
sorcerers' description of the world; a description in which
communicating with animals through
speech was a matter of course.
''We're not going to engage ourselves in dwelling on any experience of
that nature," don Juan
said upon hearing my question. "It is not advisable for you to indulge
in focusing your attention
on past events. We may touch on them, but only in reference."
"Why is that so, don Juan?"
"You don't have enough personal power yet to seek the sorcerers'
explanation."
"Then there is a sorcerers' explanation!"
"Certainly. Sorcerers are men. We're creatures of thought. We seek
clarifications."
"I was under the impression that my great flaw was to seek
explanations."
"No. Your flaw is to seek convenient explanations, explanations that
fit you and your world.
6
What I object to is your reasonableness. A sorcerer explains things in
his world too, but he's not
as stiff as you."
"How can I arrive at the sorcerers' explanation?"
"By accumulating personal power. Personal power will make you slide
with great ease into
the sorcerers' explanation. The explanation is not what you would call
an explanation;
nevertheless, it makes the world and its mysteries, if not clear, at
least less awesome. That should
be the essence of an explanation, but that is not what you seek. You're
after the reflection of your
ideas."
I lost my momentum to ask questions. But his smile urged me to keep on
talking. Another
issue of great importance to me was his friend don Genaro and the
extraordinary effect that his
actions had had on me. Every time I had come into contact with him I
had experienced the most
outlandish sensory distortions.
Don Juan laughed when I voiced my question.
"Genaro is stupendous," he said. "But for the time being, there is no
sense in talking about
him or about what he does to you. Again, you don't have enough personal
power to unravel that
topic. Wait until you have it, then we will talk."
"What if I never have it?"
"If you never have it, we'll never talk."
"At the rate I'm going, will I ever have enough of it?" I asked.
"That's up to you," he replied. "I have given you all the information
necessary. Now it's your
responsibility to gain enough personal power to tip the scales."
"You're talking in metaphors," I said. "Give it to me straight. Tell me
exactly what I should
do. If you have already told me, let's say that I've forgotten it."
Don Juan chuckled and lay down, putting his arms behind his head.
"You know exactly what you need," he said.
I told him that sometimes I thought I knew, hut that most of the time I
had no self-confidence.
"I'm afraid that you are confusing issues," he said. "The
self-confidence of the warrior is not
the self-confidence of the average man. The average man seeks certainty
in the eyes of the
onlooker and calls that self-confidence. The warrior seeks
impeccability in his own eyes and
calls that humbleness. The average man is hooked to his fellow men,
while the warrior is hooked
only to himself. Perhaps you are chasing rainbows. You're after the
self-confidence of the
average man, when you should be after the humbleness of a warrior. The
difference between the
two is remarkable. Self-confidence entails knowing something for sure;
humbleness entails being
impeccable in one's actions and feelings."
"I've been trying to live in accordance with your suggestions," I said.
"I may not be the best,
but I'm the best of myself. Is that impeccability?"
"No. You must do better than that. You must push yourself beyond your
limits, all the time."
"But that would be insane, don Juan. No one can do that."
"There are lots of things that you do now which would have seemed
insane to you ten years
ago. Those things themselves did not change, but your idea of yourself
changed; what was
impossible before is perfectly possible now and perhaps your total
success in changing yourself
is only a matter of time. In this affair the only possible course that
a warrior has is to act
consistently and without reservations. You know enough of the warrior's
way to act accordingly,
but your old habits and routines stand in your way."
I understood what he meant.
"Do you think that writing is one of the old habits I should change?" I
asked. "Should I
destroy my new manuscript?"
7
He did not answer. He stood up and turned to look at the edge of the
chaparral.
I told him that I had received letters from various people telling me
that it was wrong to write
about my apprenticeship. They had cited as a precedent that the masters
of Eastern esoteric
doctrines demanded absolute secrecy about their teachings.
"Perhaps those masters are just indulging in being masters," don Juan
said without looking at
me. "I'm not a master, I'm only a warrior. So I really don't know what
a master feels like."
"But maybe I'm revealing things I shouldn't, don Juan."
"It doesn't matter what one reveals or what one keeps to oneself," he
said. "Everything we do,
everything we are, rests on our personal power. If we have enough of
it, one word uttered to us
might be sufficient to change the course of our lives. But if we don't
have enough personal
power, the most magnificent piece of wisdom can be revealed to us and
that revelation won't
make a damn bit of difference."
He then lowered his voice as if he were disclosing a confidential
matter to me.
"I'm going to utter perhaps the greatest piece of knowledge anyone can
voice," he said. "Let
me see what you can do with it.
"Do you know that at this very moment you are surrounded by eternity?
And do you know
that you can use that eternity, if you so desire?"
After a long pause, during which he urged me with a subtle movement of
his eyes to make a
statement, I said that I did not understand what he was talking about.
"There! Eternity is there!" he said, pointing to the horizon.
Then he pointed to the zenith. "Or there, or perhaps we can say that
eternity is like this.” He
extended both arms to point to the east and west.
We looked at each other. His eyes held a question.
"What do you say to that?" he asked, coaxing me to ponder upon his
words.
I did not know what to say.
"Do you know that you can extend yourself forever in any of the
directions I have pointed
to?" he went on. "Do you know that one moment can be eternity? This is
not a riddle; it's a fact,
but only if you mount that moment and use it to take the totality of
yourself forever in any
direction,"
He stared at me.
"You didn't have this knowledge before," he said, smiling. "Now you do.
I have revealed it to
you, but it doesn't make a bit of difference, because you don't have
enough personal power to
utilize my revelation. Yet if you did have enough power, my words alone
would serve as the
means for you to round up the totality of yourself and to get the
crucial part of it out of the
boundaries in which it is contained."
He came to my side and poked my chest with his fingers; it was a very
light tap.
"These are the boundaries I'm talking about," he said. "One can get out
of them. We are a
feeling, an awareness encased here."
He slapped my shoulders with both hands. My pad and pencil fell to the
ground. Don Juan
put his foot on the pad and stared at me and then laughed.
I asked him if he minded my taking notes. He said no in a reassuring
tone and moved his foot
away.
"We are luminous beings," he said, shaking his head rhythmically. "And
for a luminous being
only personal power matters. But if you ask me what personal power is,
I have to tell you that my
explanation will not explain it."
Don Juan looked at the western horizon and said that there were still a
few hours of daylight
left.
8
"We have to be here for a long time," he explained. "So, we either sit
quietly or we talk. It is
not natural for you to be silent, so let's keep on talking. This spot
is a power place and it must
become used to us before nightfall. You must sit here, as naturally as
possible, without fear or
impatience. It seems that the easiest way for you to relax is to take
notes, so write to your heart's
content.
"And now, suppose you tell me about your dreaming."
His sudden shift caught me unprepared. He repeated his request. There
was a great deal to
say about it. "Dreaming" entailed cultivating a peculiar control over
one's dreams to the extent
that the experiences undergone in them and those lived in one's waking
hours acquired the same
pragmatic valence. Then sorcerers' allegation was that under the impact
of dreaming the ordinary
criteria to differentiate a dream from reality became inoperative.
Don Juan's praxis of dreaming was an exercise that consisted of finding
one's hands in a
dream. In other words, one had to deliberately dream that one was
looking for and could find
one's hands in a dream by simply dreaming that one lifted one's hands
to the level of the eyes.
After years of unsuccessful attempts I had finally accomplished the
task. Looking at it in
retrospect, it had become evident to me that I had succeeded only after
I had gained a degree of
control over the world of my everyday life.
Don Juan wanted to know the salient points. I began telling him that
the difficulty of setting
up the command to look at my hands seemed to be, quite often,
insurmountable. He had warned
me that the early stage of the preparatory facet, which he called
"setting up dreaming," consisted
of a deadly game that one's mind played with itself, and that some part
of myself was going to do
everything it could to prevent the fulfillment of my task. That could
include, don Juan had said,
plunging me into a loss of meaning, melancholy, or even a suicidal
depression. I did not go that
far, however. My experience was rather on the light, comical side;
nonetheless, the result was
equally frustrating. Every time I was about to look at my hands in a
dream something
extraordinary would happen; I would begin to fly, or my dream would
turn into a nightmare, or it
would simply become a very pleasant experience of bodily excitation;
everything in the dream
would extend far beyond the "normal" in matters of vividness and,
therefore, be terribly
absorbing. My original intention of observing my hands was always
forgotten in light of the new
situation.
One night, quite unexpectedly, I found my hands in my dreams. I dreamt
that I was walking
on an unknown street in a foreign city and suddenly I lifted up my
hands and placed them in
front of my face. It was as if something within myself had given up and
had permitted me to
watch the backs of my hands.
Don Juan's instructions had been that as soon as the sight of my hands
would begin to
dissolve or change into something else, I had to shift my view from my
hands to any other
element in the surroundings of my dream. In that particular dream I
shifted my view to a building
at the end of the street. When the sight of the building began to
dissipate I focused my attention
on the other elements of the surroundings in my dream. The end result
was an incredibly clear
composite picture of a deserted street in some unknown foreign city.
Don Juan made me continue with my account of other experiences in
dreaming. We talked
for a long time.
At the end of my report he stood up and went to the bushes. I also
stood up. I was nervous. It
was an unwarranted sensation since there was nothing precipitating fear
or concern. Don Juan
returned shortly. He noticed my agitation.
"Calm down," he said, holding my arm gently.
He made me sit down and put my notebook on my lap. He coaxed me to
write. His argument
9
was that I should not disturb the power place with unnecessary feelings
of fear or hesitation.
"Why do I get so nervous?" I asked.
"It's natural," he said. "Something in you is threatened by your
activities in dreaming. As
long as you did not think about those activities, you were all right.
But now that you have
revealed your actions you're about to faint.
"Each warrior has his own way of dreaming. Each way is different. The
only thing which we
all have in common is that we play tricks in order to force ourselves
to abandon the quest. The
counter-measure is to persist in spite of all the barriers and
disappointments."
He asked me then if I was capable of selecting topics for dreaming. I
said that I did not have
the faintest idea of how to do that.
"The sorcerers' explanation of how to select a topic for dreaming" he
said, "is that a warrior
chooses the topic by deliberately holding an image in his mind while he
shuts off his internal
dialogue. In other words, if he is capable of not talking to himself
for a moment and then holds
the image or the thought of what he wants in dreaming, even if only for
an instant, then the
desired topic will come to him. I'm sure you've done that, although you
were not aware of it."
There was a long pause and then don Juan began to sniff the air. It was
as if he were cleaning
his nose; he exhaled three or four times through his nostrils with
great force. The muscles of his
abdomen contracted in spasms, which he controlled by taking in short
gasps of air.
"We won't talk about dreaming any more," he said. "You might become
obsessed. If one is to
succeed in anything, the success must come gently, with a great deal of
effort but with no stress
or obsession."
He stood up and walked to the edge of the bushes. He leaned forward and
peered into the
foliage. He seemed to be examining something in the leaves, without
getting too close to them.
"What are you doing?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.
He turned to me, smiled and raised his brow.
"The bushes are filled with strange things," he said as he sat down
again.
His tone was so casual that it scared me more than if he had let out a
sudden yell. My
notebook and pencil fell from my hands. He laughed and mimicked me and
said that my
exaggerated reactions were one of the loose ends that still existed in
my life.
I wanted to raise a point but he would not let me talk.
"There's only a bit of daylight left," he said. "There are other things
we ought to touch upon
before the twilight sets in."
He then added that judging by my production in dreaming I must have
learned how to stop
my internal dialogue at will. I told him that I had.
At the beginning of our association don Juan had delineated another
procedure: walking for
long stretches without focusing the eyes on anything. His
recommendation had been to not look
at anything directly but, by slightly crossing the eyes, to keep a
peripheral view of everything
that presented itself to the eyes. He had insisted, although I had not
understood at the time, that if
one kept one's unfocused eyes at a point just above the horizon, it was
possible to notice, at once,
everything in almost the total 180-degree range in front of one's eyes.
He had assured me that
that exercise was the only way of shutting off the internal dialogue.
He used to ask me for reports
on my progress, and then he stopped inquiring about it.
I told don Juan that I had practiced the technique for years without
noticing any change, but I
had expected none anyway. One day, however, I had the shocking
realization that I had just
walked for about ten minutes without having said a single word to
myself.
I mentioned to don Juan that on that occasion I also became cognizant
that stopping the
internal dialogue involved more than merely curtailing the words I said
to myself. My entire
10
thought processes had stopped and I had felt I was practically
suspended, floating. A sensation of
panic had ensued from that awareness and I had to resume my internal
dialogue as an antidote.
"I've told you that the internal dialogue is what grounds us," don Juan
said. "The world is
such and such or so and so, only because we talk to ourselves about its
being such and such or so
and so."
Don Juan explained that the passageway into the world of sorcerers
opens up after the
warrior has learned to shut off the internal dialogue.
"To change our idea of the world is the crux of sorcery," he said. "And
stopping the internal
dialogue is the only way to accomplish it. The rest is just padding.
Now you're in the position to
know that nothing of what you've seen or done, with the exception of
stopping the internal
dialogue, could by itself have changed anything in you, or in your idea
of the world. The
provision is, of course, that that change should not be deranged. Now
you can understand why a
teacher doesn't clamp down on his apprentice. That would only breed
obsession and morbidity."
He asked for details of other experiences I had had in shutting off the
internal dialogue. I
recounted everything that I could remember.
We talked until it became dark and I could no longer take notes in a
comfortable manner; I
had to pay attention to my writing and that altered my concentration.
Don Juan became aware of
it and began to laugh. He pointed out that I had accomplished another
sorcery task, writing
without concentrating. The moment he said it, I realized that I really
did not pay attention to the
act of taking notes. It seemed to be a separate activity I had nothing
to do with. I felt odd. Don
Juan asked me to sit by him in the center of the circle. He said it was
too dark and I was no
longer safe sitting so close to the edge of the chaparral. I felt a
chill up my back and jumped to
his side.
He made me face the southeast and asked me to command myself to be
silent and without
thoughts. I could not do it at first and had a moment of impatience.
Don Juan turned his back to
me and told me to lean on his shoulder for support. He said that once I
had quieted down my
thoughts, I should keep my eyes open, facing the bushes towards the
southeast. In a mysterious
tone he added that he was setting up a problem for me, and that if I
resolved it I would be ready
for another facet of the sorcerers' world.
I posed a weak question about the nature of the problem. He chuckled
softly. I waited for his
answer and then something in me was turned off. I felt I was suspended.
My ears seemed to
unplug and a myriad of noises in the chaparral became audible. There
were so many that I could
not distinguish them individually. I felt I was falling asleep and then
all at once something caught
my attention. It was not something which involved my thought processes;
it was not a vision, or
a feature of the environment either, yet my awareness had been engaged
by something. I was
fully awake. My eyes were focused on a spot on the edge of the
chaparral, but I was not looking,
or thinking, or talking to myself. My feelings were clear bodily
sensations; they did not need
words. I felt I was rushing through something indefinite. Perhaps what
would have ordinarily
been my thoughts were rushing; at any rate, I had the sensation that I
had been caught in a
landslide and something was avalanching, with me at the crest. I felt
the rush in my stomach.
Something was pulling me into the chaparral. I could distinguish the
dark mass of the bushes in
front of me. It was not, however, an undifferentiated darkness as it
would ordinarily be. I could
see every individual bush as if I were looking at them in a dark
twilight. They seemed to be
moving; the mass of their foliage looked like black skirts flowing
towards me as if they were
being blown by the wind, but there was no wind. I became absorbed in
their mesmerizing
movements; it was a pulsating ripple that seemed to draw them nearer
and nearer to me. And
then I noticed a lighter silhouette which seemed to be superimposed on
the dark shapes of the
11
bushes. I focused my eyes on a spot to the side of the lighter
silhouette and I could make out a
chartreuse glow on it. Then I looked at it without focusing and I had
the certainty that the lighter
silhouette was a man hiding in the underbrush.
I was, at that moment, in a most peculiar state of awareness. I was
cognizant of the
surroundings and of the mental processes that the surroundings
engendered in myself, yet I was
not thinking as I ordinarily think. For instance, when I realized that
the silhouette superimposed
on the bushes was a man, I recalled another occasion on the desert; I
had noticed then, while don
Genaro and I were walking in the chaparral at night, that a man was
hiding in the bushes behind
us, but the instant I had attempted to explain the phenomenon
rationally I lost sight of the man.
This time, however, I felt I had the upper hand and I refused to
explain or to think anything at all.
For a moment I had the impression that I could hold the man and force
him to remain where he
was. I then experienced a strange pain in the pit of my stomach.
Something seemed to rip inside
me and I could not hold the muscles of my midsection tense any longer.
At the very moment I let
go, the dark shape of an enormous bird, or some sort of flying animal,
lurched at me from the
chaparral. It was as if the shape of the man had turned into the shape
of a bird. I had the clear
conscious perception of fear. I gasped and then let out a loud yell and
fell on my back.
Don Juan helped me up. His face was very close to mine. He was laughing.
"What was that?" I shouted.
He hushed me, putting his hand over my mouth. He put his lips to my ear
and whispered that
we had to leave the area in a calm and collected fashion, as if nothing
had happened.
We walked side by side. His pace was relaxed and even. A couple of
times he turned around
quickly. I did the same and twice I caught sight of a dark mass that
seemed to be following us. I
heard a loud eerie shriek behind me. I experienced a moment of sheer
terror; ripples ran through
the muscles of my stomach; they came in spasms and grew in intensity
until they simply forced
my body to run.
The only way of talking about my reaction has to be in don Juan's
terminology; and thus I
can say that my body, due to the fright I was experiencing, was capable
of executing what he had
called "the gait of power," a technique he had taught me years before,
consisting of running in
the darkness without tripping or hurting oneself in any way.
I was not fully aware of what I had done or how I had done it. Suddenly
I found myself again
at don Juan's house. Apparently he had also run and we had arrived at
the same time. He lit his
kerosene lantern, hung it from a beam in the ceiling and casually asked
me to sit down and relax.
I jogged on the same spot for a while until my nervousness became more
manageable. Then I
sat down. He forcefully ordered me to act as if nothing had happened
and handed me my
notebook. I had not realized that in my haste to leave the bushes I had
dropped it.
"What happened out there, don Juan?" I finally asked.
"You had an appointment with knowledge," he said, pointing with a
movement of his chin to
the dark edge of the desert chaparral. "I took you there because I
caught a glimpse of knowledge
prowling around the house earlier. You might say that knowledge knew
that you were coming
and was waiting for you. Rather than meeting it here, I felt it was
proper to meet it on a power
spot. Then I set up a test to see if you had enough personal power to
isolate it from the rest of the
things around us. You did fine."
"Wait a minute!" I protested. "I saw the silhouette of a man hiding
behind a bush and then I
saw a huge bird."
"You didn't see a man!" he said emphatically. "Neither did you see a
bird. The silhouette in
the bushes and what flew to us was a moth. If you want to be accurate
in sorcerers' terms, but
very ridiculous in your own terms, you could say that tonight you had
an appointment with a
12
moth. Knowledge is a moth."
He looked at me piercingly. The light of the lantern created strange
shadows on his face. I
moved my eyes away.
"Perhaps you'll have enough personal power to unravel that mystery
tonight," he said. "If not
tonight, perhaps tomorrow; remember, you still owe me six days."
Don Juan stood up and walked to the kitchen in the back of the house.
He took the lantern
and set it against the wall on the short round stump that he used as a
bench. We sat down on the
floor opposite each other and served ourselves some beans and meat from
a pot that he had
placed in front of us. We ate in silence.
He gave me furtive glances from time to time and seemed on the verge of
laughing. His eyes
were like two slits. When he looked at me he would open them a bit and
the moistness of the
corneas reflected the light of the lantern. It was as if he were using
the light to create a mirror
reflection. He played with it, shaking his head almost imperceptibly
every time he focused his
eyes on me. The effect was a fascinating quiver of light. I became
aware of his maneuvers after
he had executed them a couple of times. I was convinced that he was
acting with a definite
purpose in mind. I felt compelled to ask him about it.
"I have an ulterior reason," he said reassuringly. "I'm soothing you
with my eyes. You don't
seem to be getting more nervous, do you?"
I had to admit that I felt quite at ease. The steady flicker in his
eyes was not menacing and it
had not scared or annoyed me in any way.
"How do you soothe me with your eyes?" I asked.
He repeated the imperceptible shake of his head. The corneas of his
eyes were indeed
reflecting the light of the kerosene lantern.
"Try to do it yourself," he said casually as he gave himself another
serving of food. "You can
soothe yourself."
I tried to shake my head; my movements were awkward.
"You won't soothe yourself bobbing your head like that," he said and
laughed. "You'll give
yourself a headache instead. The secret is not in the head shake but in
the feeling that comes to
the eyes from the area below the stomach. This is what makes the head
shake."
He rubbed his umbilical region.
After I had finished eating I slouched against a pile of wood and some
burlap sacks. I tried to
imitate his head shake. Don Juan seemed to be enjoying himself
immensely. He giggled and
slapped his thighs.
Then a sudden noise interrupted his laughter. I heard a strange deep
sound, like tapping on
wood, that came from the chaparral. Don Juan jutted his chin, signaling
me to remain alert.
"That's the little moth calling you," he said in an unemotional tone.
I jumped to my feet. The sound ceased instantaneously. I looked at don
Juan for an
explanation. He made a comical gesture of helplessness, shrugging his
shoulders.
"You haven't fulfilled your appointment yet," he added.
I told him that I felt unworthy and that perhaps I should go home and
come back when I felt
stronger.
"You're talking nonsense," he snapped. "A warrior takes his lot,
whatever it may be, and
accepts it in ultimate humbleness. He accepts in humbleness what he is,
not as grounds for regret
but as a living challenge.
"It takes time for every one of us to understand that point and fully
live it. I, for instance,
hated the mere mention of the word “humbleness”.
I'm an Indian and we Indians have always
been humble and have done nothing else but lower our heads. I thought
humbleness was not in
13
the warrior's way. I was wrong! I know now that the humbleness of a
warrior is not the
humbleness of a beggar. The warrior lowers his head to no one, but at
the same time, he doesn't
permit anyone to lower his head to him. The beggar, on the other hand,
falls to his knees at the
drop of a hat and scrapes the floor for anyone he deems to be higher;
but at the same time, he
demands that someone lower than him scrape the floor for him.
"That's why I told you earlier today that I didn't understand what
masters felt like. I know
only the humbleness of a warrior, and that will never permit me to be
anyone's master."
We were quiet for a moment. His words had caused me a profound
agitation. I was moved by
them and at the same time I felt concerned with what I had witnessed in
the chaparral. My
conscious assessment was that don Juan was holding out on me and that
he must have known
what was really taking place.
I was involved in those deliberations when the same strange tapping
noise jolted me out of my
thoughts. Don Juan smiled and then began to chuckle.
"You like the humbleness of a beggar," he said softly. "You bow your
head to reason."
"I always think that I'm being tricked," I said. "That's the crux of my
problem."
"You're right. You are being tricked," he retorted with a disarming
smile. "That cannot be
your problem. The real crux of the matter is that you feel that I am
deliberately lying to you, am I
correct?"
"Yes. There is something in myself that doesn't let me believe that
what's taking place is
real."
"You're right again. Nothing of what is taking place is real."
"What do you mean by that, don Juan?"
"Things are real only after one has learned to agree on their realness.
What took place this
evening, for instance, cannot possibly be real to you, because no one
could agree with you about
it."
"Do you mean that you didn't see what happened?"
"Of course I did. But I don't count. I am the one who's lying to you,
remember?"
Don Juan laughed until he coughed and choked. His laughter was friendly
even though he
was making fun of me.
"Don't pay too much attention to all my gibberish," he said
reassuringly. "I'm just trying to
relax you and I know that you feel at home only when you're muddled up."
His expression was deliberately comical and we both laughed. I told him
that what he had
just said made me feel more afraid than ever.
"You're afraid of me?" he asked.
"Not of you, but of what you represent."
"I represent the warrior's freedom. Are you afraid of that?"
"No. But I'm afraid of the awesomeness of your knowledge. There is no
solace for me, no
haven to go to."
"You're again confusing issues. Solace, haven, fear, all of them are
moods that you have
learned without ever questioning their value. As one can see, the black
magicians have already
engaged all your allegiance."
"Who are the black magicians, don Juan?"
"Our fellow men are the black magicians. And since you are with them,
you too are a black
magician. Think for a moment. Can you deviate from the path that
they've lined up for you? No.
Your thoughts and your actions are fixed forever in their terms. That
is slavery. I, on the other
hand, brought you freedom. Freedom is expensive, but the price is not
impossible. So, fear your
captors, your masters. Don't waste your time and your power fearing me."
14
I knew that he was right, and yet in spite of my genuine agreement with
him I also knew that
my lifelong habits would unavoidably make me stick to my old path. I
did indeed feel like a
slave.
After a long silence don Juan asked me if I had enough strength for
another bout with
knowledge.
"Do you mean with the moth?" I asked half in jest.
His body contorted with laughter. It was as if I had just told him the
funniest joke in the
world.
"What do you really mean when you say that knowledge is a moth?" I
asked.
"I have no other meanings," he replied. "A moth is a moth. I thought
that by now, with all
your accomplishments, you would have had enough power to see. You
caught sight of a man
instead and that was not true seeing."
From the beginning of my apprenticeship, don Juan had depicted the
concept of "seeing" as a
special capacity that one could develop and which would allow one to
apprehend the "ultimate"
nature of things.
Over the years of our association I had developed a notion that what he
meant by seeing was
an intuitive grasp of things, or the capacity to understand something
at once, or perhaps the
ability to see through human interactions and discover covert meanings
and motives.
"I should say that tonight, when you faced the moth, you were half
looking and half seeing,"
don Juan proceeded. "In that state, although you were not altogether
your usual self, you were
still capable of being fully aware in order to operate your knowledge
of the world."
Don Juan paused and looked at me. I did not know what to say at first.
"How was I operating my knowledge of the world?" I asked.
"Your knowledge of the world told you that in the bushes one can only
find animals prowling
or men hiding behind the foliage. You held that thought, and naturally
you had to find ways to
make the world conform to that thought."
"But I wasn't thinking at all, don Juan."
"Let's not call it thinking then. It is rather the habit of having the
world always conform to
our thoughts. When it doesn't, we simply make it conform. Moths as
large as a man cannot be
even a thought, therefore, for you, what was in the bushes had to be a
man.
"The same thing happened with the coyote. Your old habits decided the
nature of that
encounter too. Something took place between you and the coyote, but it
wasn't talk. I have been
in the same quandary myself. I've told you that once I talked with a
deer; now you've talked to a
coyote, but neither you nor I will ever know what really took place at
those times."
"What are you telling me, don Juan?"
"When the sorcerers' explanation became clear to me, it was too late to
know what the deer
did to me. I said that we talked, but that wasn't so. To say that we
had a conversation is only a
way of arranging it so I can talk about it. The deer and I did
something, but at the time it was
taking place I needed to make the world conform to my ideas, just like
you did. I had been
talking all my life, just like you, therefore my habits prevailed and
were extended to the deer.
When the deer came to me and did whatever it did, I was forced to
understand it as talking."
"Is this the sorcerers' explanation?"
"No. This is my explanation for you. But it is not opposed to the
sorcerers' explanation."
His statement threw me into a state of great intellectual excitation.
For a while I forgot the
prowling moth or even to take notes. I tried to rephrase his statements
and we involved ourselves
in a long discussion about the reflexive nature of our world. The
world, according to don Juan,
had to conform to its description; that is, the description reflected
itself.
15
Another point in his elucidation was that we had learned to relate
ourselves to our description
of the world in terms of what he called "habits." I introduced what I
thought was a more
engulfing term, intentionality, the property of human consciousness
whereby an object is referred
to, or is intended.
Our conversation engendered a most interesting speculation. Examined in
light of don Juan's
explanation, my "talk" with the coyote acquired a new character. I had
indeed "intended" the
dialogue, since I have never known another avenue of intentional
communication. I had also
succeeded in conforming to the description that communication takes
place through dialogue,
and thus I made the description reflect itself.
I had a moment of great elation. Don Juan laughed and said that to be
so moved by words
was another aspect of my foolery. He made a comical gesture of talking
without sounds.
"All of us go through the same shenanigans," he said after a long
pause. "The only way to
overcome them is to persist in acting like a warrior. The rest comes of
itself and by itself."
"What is the rest, don Juan?"
"Knowledge and power. Men of knowledge have both. And yet none of them
could tell how
they got to have them, except that they had kept on acting like
warriors and at a given moment
everything changed."
He looked at me. He seemed undecided, then stood up and said that I had
no other recourse
but to keep my appointment with knowledge.
I felt a shiver; my heart began to pound fast. I got up. Don Juan moved
around me as if he
were examining my body from every possible angle. He signaled me to sit
down and keep on
writing.
"If you get too frightened you won't be able to keep your appointment,"
he said. "A warrior
must be calm and collected and must never lose his grip."
"I'm really scared," I said. "Moth or whatever, there is something
prowling around out there
in the bushes."
"Of course there is!" he exclaimed. "My objection is that you insist on
thinking that it is a
man, just like you insist on thinking that you talked with a coyote."
A part of me fully understood his point; there was, however, another
aspect of myself that
would not let go and in spite of the evidence clung steadfast to
"reason."
I told don Juan that his explanation did not satisfy my senses,
although I was in complete
intellectual agreement with it.
"That's the flaw with words," he said in an assuring tone. "They always
force us to feel
enlightened, but when we turn around to face the world they always fail
us and we end up facing
the world as we always have, without enlightenment. For this reason, a
sorcerer seeks to act
rather than to talk and to this effect he gets a new description of the
world — a new description
where talking is not that important, and where new acts have new
reflections."
He sat down by me and gazed into my eyes and asked me to voice what I
had really seen in
the chaparral.
I was confronted at the moment with an absorbing inconsistency. I had
seen the dark shape of
a man, but I had also seen that shape turn into a bird. I had,
therefore, witnessed more than my
reason would allow me to consider possible. But rather than discarding
my reason altogether,
something in myself had selected parts of my experience, such as the
size and general contour of
the dark shape, and held them as reasonable possibilities, while it
discarded other parts, such as
the dark shape turning into a bird. And thus I had become convinced
that I had seen a man.
Don Juan roared with laughter when I expressed my quandary. He said
that sooner or later
the sorcerers' explanation would come to my rescue and everything would
then be perfectly
16
clear, without having to be reasonable or unreasonable.
"In the meantime all I can do for you is to guarantee that that was not
a man," he said.
Don Juan's gaze became quite unnerving. My body shivered involuntarily.
He made me feel
embarrassed and nervous.
"I'm looking for marks on your body," he explained. "You may not know
it, but this evening
you had quite a bout out there."
"What kind of marks are you looking for?"
"Not actual physical marks on your body but signs, indications in your
luminous fibers, areas
of brightness. We are luminous beings and everything we are or
everything we feel shows in our
fibers. Humans have a brightness peculiar only to them. That's the only
way to tell them apart
from other luminous living beings.
"If you would have seen tonight, you would have noticed that the shape
in the bushes was not
a luminous living being."
I wanted to ask more but he put his hand on my mouth and hushed me. He
then put his mouth
to my ear and whispered that I should listen and try to hear a soft
rustling, the gentle muffled
steps of a moth on the dry leaves and branches on the ground.
I could not hear anything. Don Juan stood up abruptly, picked up the
lantern and said that we
were going to sit under the ramada by the front door. He led me through
the back and around the
house, on the edge of the chaparral rather than going through the room
and out the front door. He
explained that it was essential to make our presence obvious. We half
circled around the house
on the left side. Don Juan's pace was extremely slow. His steps were
weak and vacillating. His
arm shook as he held the lantern.
I asked him if there was something wrong with him. He winked at me and
whispered that the
big moth that was prowling around had an appointment with a young man,
and that the slow gait
of a feeble old man was an obvious way of showing who was the appointee.
When we finally arrived at the front of the house, don Juan hooked the
lantern on a beam and
made me sit with my back against the wall. He sat to my right.
"We're going to sit here," he said, "and you are going to write and
talk to me in a very normal
manner. The moth that lurched at you today is around, in the bushes.
After a while it'll come
closer to look at you. That's why I've put the lantern on a beam right
above you. The light will
guide the moth to find you. When it gets to the edge of the bushes, it
will call you. It is a very
special sound. The sound by itself may help you."
"What kind of sound is it, don Juan?"
"It is a song. A haunting call that moths produce. Ordinarily it cannot
be heard, but the moth
out there in the bushes is a rare moth; you will hear its call clearly
and, providing that you are
impeccable, it will remain with you for the rest of your life."
"What is it going to help me with?"
"Tonight, you're going to try to finish what you've started earlier.
Seeing happens only when
the warrior is capable of stopping the internal dialogue.
"Today, you stopped your talk at will, out there in the bushes. And you
saw. What you saw
was not clear. You thought that it was a man. I say it was a moth.
Neither of us is correct, but
that's because we have to talk. I still have the upper hand because I
see better than you and
because I'm familiar with the sorcerers' explanation; so I know,
although it's not altogether
accurate, that the shape you saw tonight was a moth.
"And now, you're going to remain silent and thoughtless and let that
little moth come to you
again."
I could hardly take notes. Don Juan laughed and urged me to keep on
writing as if nothing
bothered me. He touched my arm and said that writing was the best
protective shield that I had.
17
"We've never talked about moths," he went on. "The time was not right
until now. As you
already know, your spirit was unbalanced. To counteract that I taught
you to live the warrior's
way. Well, a warrior starts off with the certainty that his spirit is
off balance; then by living in
full control and awareness, but without hurry or compulsion, he does
his ultimate best to gain this
balance.
"In your case, as in the case of every man, your imbalance was due to
the sum total of all
your actions. But now your spirit seems to be in the proper light to
talk about moths."
"How did you know that this was the right time to talk about moths?"
"I caught a glimpse of the moth prowling around when you arrived. It
was the first time it
was friendly and open. I had seen it before in the mountains around
Genaro's house, but only as a
menacing figure reflecting your lack of order."
I heard a strange sound at that moment. It was like a muffled creaking
of a branch rubbing
against another, or like the sputtering of a small motor heard from a
distance. It changed scales,
like a musical tone, creating an eerie rhythm. Then it stopped.
"That was the moth," don Juan said. "Perhaps you've already noticed
that, although the light
of the lantern is bright enough to attract moths, there isn't a single
one flying around it."
I had not paid attention to it, but once don Juan made me aware of it,
I also noticed an
incredible silence in the desert around the house.
"Don't get jumpy," he said calmly. "There is nothing in this world that
a warrior cannot
account for. You see, a warrior considers himself already dead, so
there is nothing for him to
lose. The worst has already happened to him, therefore he's clear and
calm; judging him by his
acts or by his words, one would never suspect that he has witnessed
everything."
Don Juan's words, and above all his mood, were very soothing to me. I
told him that in my
day-to-day life I no longer experienced the obsessive fear I used to,
but that my body entered into
convulsions of fright at the thought of what was out there in the dark.
"Out there, there is only knowledge," he said in a factual tone.
"Knowledge is frightening,
true; but if a warrior accepts the frightening nature of knowledge he
cancels out its
awesomeness."
The strange sputtering noise happened again. It seemed closer and
louder. I listened
carefully. The more attention I paid to it the more difficult it was to
determine its nature. It did
not seem to be the call of a bird or the cry of a land animal. The tone
of each sputter was rich and
deep; some were produced in a low key, others in a high one. They had a
rhythm and a specific
duration; some were long, I heard them like a single unit of sound;
others were short and
happened in a cluster, like the staccato sound of a machine gun.
"The moths are the heralds or, better yet, the guardians of eternity,"
don Juan said after the
sound had stopped. "For some reason, or for no reason at all, they are
the depositories of the gold
dust of eternity."
The metaphor was foreign to me. I asked him to explain it.
"The moths carry a dust on their wings," he said. "A dark gold dust.
That dust is the dust of
knowledge."
His explanation had made the metaphor even more obscure. I vacillated
for a moment trying
to find the best way of wording my question. But he began to talk again.
"Knowledge is a most peculiar affair," he said, "especially for a
warrior. Knowledge for a
warrior is something that comes at once, engulfs him, and passes on."
"What does knowledge have to do with the dust on the wings of moths?" I
asked after a long
pause.
"Knowledge comes floating like specks of gold dust, the same dust that
covers the wings of
18
moths. So, for a warrior, knowledge is like taking a shower, or being
rained on by specks of dark
gold dust."
In the most polite manner I was capable of, I mentioned that his
explanations had confused
me even more. He laughed and assured me that he was making perfect
sense, except that my
reason would not allow me to be at ease.
"The moths have been the intimate friends and helpers of sorcerers from
time immemorial,"
he said. "I had not touched upon this subject before, because of your
lack of preparation."
"But how can the dust on their wings be knowledge?"
"You'll see."
He put his hand over my notebook and told me to close my eyes and
become silent and
without thoughts. He said that the call of the moth in the chaparral
was going to aid me. If I paid
attention to it, it would tell me of imminent events. He stressed that
he did not know how the
communication between the moth and myself was going to be established,
neither did he know
what the terms of the communication would be. He urged me to feel at
ease and confident and
trust my personal power.
After an initial period of impatience and nervousness I succeeded in
becoming silent. My
thoughts diminished in number until my mind was perfectly blank. The
noises of the desert
chaparral seemed to have been turned on as I became more calm.
The strange sound that don Juan said was made by a moth occurred again.
It registered as a
feeling in my body and not as a thought in my mind. It occurred to me
that it was not threatening
or malevolent at all. It was sweet and simple. It was like a child's
call. It brought back the
memory of a little boy that I once knew. The long sounds reminded me of
his round blond head,
the short staccato sounds of his laughter. The most anguishing feeling
oppressed me, and yet
there were no thoughts in my mind; I felt the anguish in my body. I
could no longer remain
sitting and slid to the floor on my side. My sadness was so intense
that I began to think. I
assessed my pain and sorrow and suddenly found myself in the midst of
an internal debate about
the little boy. The sputtering sound had ceased. My eyes were closed. I
heard don Juan standing
up and then I felt him helping me to sit up. I did not want to speak.
He did not say a word. I
heard him moving by me. I opened my eyes; he had knelt in front of me
and was examining my
face, holding the lantern close to me. He ordered me to put my hands
over my stomach. He stood
up, went to the kitchen and brought me some water. He splashed some on
my face and gave me
the rest to drink.
He sat down next to me and handed me my notes. I told him that the
sound had involved me
in the most painful reverie.
"You are indulging beyond your limits," he said dryly.
He seemed to immerse himself in thought, as if he were searching for an
appropriate
suggestion to make.
"The problem for tonight is seeing people," he finally said. "First you
must stop your internal
dialogue, then you must bring up the image of the person that you want
to see; any thought that
one holds in mind in a state of silence is properly a command, since
there are no other thoughts
to compete with it. Tonight, the moth in the bushes wants to help you,
so it will sing for you. Its
song will bring the golden specks and then you will see the person
you've selected."
I wanted to have more details, but he made an abrupt gesture and
signaled me to proceed.
After struggling for a few minutes to stop my internal dialogue I was
thoroughly silent. And
then I deliberately held the brief thought of a friend of mine. I kept
my eyes closed for what I
believed to be just an instant and then I became aware that someone was
shaking me by the
shoulders. It was a slow realization. I opened my eyes and found myself
lying on my left side. I
19
had apparently fallen asleep so deeply that I did not remember having
slumped to the ground.
Don Juan helped me to sit up again. He was laughing. He imitated my
snoring and said that if he
had not witnessed it himself he would not believe that anyone could
fall asleep so fast. He said
that it was a treat for him to be around me whenever I had to do
something that my reason did
not understand. He pushed my notebook away from me and said that we had
to start all over.
I followed the necessary steps. The strange sputtering sound happened
again. This time,
however, it did not come from the chaparral; rather it seemed to happen
inside of me, as if my
lips, or legs, or arms were producing it. The sound soon engulfed me. I
felt like soft balls were
being sputtered out from or against me; it was a soothing, exquisite
feeling of being bombarded
by heavy cotton puffs. Suddenly I heard a door blown open by a gust of
wind and I was thinking
again. I thought that I had ruined another chance. I opened my eyes and
found myself in my
room. The objects on my desk were as I had left them. The door was
open; there was a strong
wind outside. The thought crossed my mind that I should check the water
heater. I then heard a
rattling on the sliding windows that I had put up myself and which did
not fit well on the window
frame. It was a furious rattling as if someone wanted to enter. I
experienced a jolt of fright. I
stood up from my chair. I felt something pulling me. I screamed.
Don Juan was shaking me by the shoulders. I excitedly gave him an
account of my vision. It
had been so vivid that I was shivering. I felt that I had just been at
my desk, in my full corporeal
form.
Don Juan shook his head in disbelief and said that I was a genius in
tricking myself. He did
not seem impressed by what I had done. He discarded it flatly and
ordered me to start again.
I then heard the mysterious sound again. It came to me, as don Juan had
suggested, in the
form of a rain of golden specks. I did not feel that they were flat
specks or flakes, as he had
described them, but rather spherical bubbles. They floated towards me.
One of them burst open
and revealed a scene to me. It was as if it had stopped in front of my
eyes and opened up,
disclosing a strange object. It looked like a mushroom. I was
definitely looking at it, and what I
was experiencing was not a dream. The mushroomlike object remained
unchanged within my
field of "vision" and then it popped, as though the light that was
shining on it had been turned
off. An interminable darkness followed it. I felt a tremor, a very
unsettling jolt, and then I had the
abrupt realization that I was being shaken. All at once my senses were
turned on. Don Juan was
shaking me vigorously, and I was looking at him. I must have just
opened my eyes at that
moment. He sprinkled water on my face. The coldness of the water was
very appealing. After a
moment's pause he wanted to know what had happened.
I recounted every detail of my vision.
"But what did I see?" I asked.
"Your friend," he retorted.
I laughed and patiently explained that I had seen a mushroom-like
figure. Although I had no
criteria to judge dimensions, I had had the feeling that it was about a
foot long.
Don Juan emphasized that feeling was all that counted. He said that my
feelings were the
gauge that assessed the state of being of the subject that I was seeing.
"From your description and your feelings I must conclude that your
friend must be a very
fine man," he said. I was baffled by his words.
He said that the mushroomlike formation was the essential shape of
human beings when a
sorcerer was seeing them from far away, but when a sorcerer was
directly facing the person he
was seeing, the human quality was shown as an egglike cluster of
luminous fibers.
"You were not facing your friend," he said. "Therefore, he appeared
like a mushroom."
"Why is that so, don Juan?"
20
"No one knows. That simply is the way men appear in this specific type
of seeing."
He added that every feature of the mushroomlike formation had a special
significance, but
that it was impossible for a beginner to accurately interpret that
significance.
I then had an intriguing recollection. Some years before, in a state of
nonordinary reality
elicited by the intake of psychotropic plants, I had experienced or
perceived, while I was looking
at a water stream, that a cluster of bubbles floated towards me,
engulfing me. The golden bubbles
I had just envisioned had floated and engulfed me in exactly the same
manner. In fact, I could
say that both clusters had had the same structure and the same pattern.
Don Juan listened to my commentaries without interest.
"Don't waste your power on trifles," he said. "You are dealing with
that immensity out there."
He pointed towards the chaparral with a movement of his hand.
"To turn that magnificence out there into reasonableness doesn't do
anything for you. Here,
surrounding us, is eternity itself. To engage in reducing it to a
manageable nonsense is petty and
outright disastrous."
He then insisted that I should attempt to see another person from my
realm of acquaintances.
He added that once the vision had terminated I should strive to open my
eyes by myself and
surface to the full awareness of my immediate surroundings.
I succeeded in holding the view of another mushroomlike form, but while
the first one had
been yellowish and small, the second one was whitish, larger and
contorted.
By the time we had finished talking about the two shapes I had seen, I
had forgotten the
"moth" in the bushes, which had been so overwhelming a little while
before. I told don Juan that
it amazed me that I had such a facility for discarding something so
truly uncanny. It was as if I
were not the person I knew myself to be.
"I don't see why you make such a fuss out of this," don Juan said.
"Whenever the dialogue
stops, the world collapses and extraordinary facets of ourselves
surface, as though they had been
kept heavily guarded by our words. You are like you are, because you
tell yourself that you are
that way."
After a short rest, don Juan urged me to continue "calling" friends. He
said that the point was
to attempt to see as many times as possible, in order to establish a
guideline for feeling.
I called thirty-two persons in succession. After each attempt, he
demanded a careful and
detailed rendition of everything I had perceived in my vision. He
changed that procedure,
however, as I became more proficient in my performance, judging by my
stopping the internal
dialogue in a matter of seconds, by my being capable of opening my eyes
by myself at the end of
each experience, and by my resuming ordinary activities without any
transition. I noticed this
change while we were discussing the coloration of the mushroomlike
formations. He had already
made the point that what I called coloration was not a hue but a glow
of different intensities. I
was about to describe a yellowish glow that I had envisioned when he
interrupted me and
accurately described what I had seen. From that point on he discussed
the content of each vision,
not as if he had understood what I had said, but as if he had seen it
himself. When I called him to
comment on it he flatly refused to talk about it.
By the time I had finished calling the thirty-two persons, I had
realized that I had seen a
variety of mushroomlike shapes, and glows, and I had had a variety of
feelings towards them,
ranging from mild delight to sheer disgust.
Don Juan explained that men were filled with configurations that could
be wishes, problems,
sorrows, worries, and so on. He asserted that only a profoundly
powerful sorcerer could untangle
the meaning of those configurations, and that I had to be content with
viewing only the general
shape of men.
I was very tired. There was something indeed fatiguing about those
strange shapes. My
21
overall sensation was one of queasiness. I had not liked them. They had
made me feel trapped
and doomed.
Don Juan commanded me to write in order to dispel the sensation of
somberness. And after a
long silent interval during which I could not write anything, he asked
me to call on people that he
himself would select.
A new series of forms emerged. They were not mushroomlike, but looked
more like Japanese
cups for sake, turned upside down. Some of them had a headlike
formation, just like the foot of
sake cups; others were more round. Their shapes were appealing and
peaceful. I sensed that there
was some inherent feeling of happiness about them. They bounced, as
opposed to the earthbound
heaviness that the previous batch had exhibited. Somehow, the mere fact
that they were there
eased my fatigue.
Among the persons he had selected was his apprentice Eligio. When I
summoned the vision
of Eligio I got a jolt that shook me out of my visionary state. Eligio
had a long white shape that
jerked and seemed to leap at me. Don Juan explained that Eligio was a
very talented apprentice
and that he, no doubt, had noticed that someone was seeing him.
Another of don Juan's selections was Pablito, don Genaro's apprentice.
The jolt that the
vision of Pablito gave me was even greater than Eligio's.
Don Juan laughed so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Why are those people shaped differently?" I asked.
"They have more personal power," he replied. "As you might have
noticed, they are not
pegged down to the ground."
"What has given them that lightness? Were they born that way?"
"We all are born that light and bouncy, but we become earth-bound and
fixed. We make
ourselves that way. So perhaps we may say that these people are shaped
differently because they
live like warriors. That's not important though. What's of value is
that you are at the edge now.
You've called forty-seven people, and there is only one more left in
order for you to complete the
original forty-eight."
I remembered at that moment that years before he had told me, while
discussing corn sorcery
and divination, that the number of corn kernels that a sorcerer
possessed was forty-eight. He had
never explained why.
I asked him again, "Why forty-eight?"
"Forty-eight is our number," he said. "That's what makes us men. I
don't know why. Don't
waste your power in idiotic questions."
He stood up and stretched his arms and legs. He told me to do the same.
I noticed that there
was a tinge of light in the sky towards the east. We sat down again. He
leaned over and put his
mouth to my ear.
"The last person you're going to call is Genaro, the real McCoy," he
whispered.
I felt a surge of curiosity and excitation. I breezed through the
required steps. The strange
sound from the edge of the chaparral became vivid and acquired new
strength. I had almost
forgotten about it. The golden bubbles engulfed me and then in one of
them I saw don Genaro
himself. He was standing in front of me, holding his hat in his hand.
He was smiling. I hurriedly
opened my eyes and was about to speak to don Juan, but before I could
say a word my body
stiffened like a board; my hair stood on end and for a long moment I
did not know what to do or
say. Don Genaro was standing right in front of me. In person!
I turned to don Juan; he was smiling. Then both of them broke into a
giant laugh. I also tried
to laugh. I could not. I stood up.
Don Juan handed me a cup of water. I drank it automatically. I thought
he was going to
sprinkle water on my face. Instead, he refilled my cup.
22
Don Genaro scratched his head and hid a grin.
"Aren't you going to greet Genaro?" don Juan asked.
It took an enormous effort for me to organize my thoughts and my
feelings. I finally mumbled
some greetings to don Genaro. He took a bow.
"You called me, didn't you?" he asked, smiling.
I muttered my amazement at having found him standing there.
"He did call you," don Juan interjected.
"Well, here I am," don Genaro said to me. "What can I do for you?"
Slowly my mind seemed to become organized and finally I had a sudden
insight. My
thoughts were crystal clear and I "knew" what had really taken place. I
figured that don Genaro
had been visiting with don Juan, and that as soon as they had heard my
car approaching, don
Genaro had slipped into the bushes and had remained in hiding until it
got dark. I believed the
evidence was convincing. Don Juan, since he had no doubt engineered the
entire affair, gave me
clues from time to time, thus guiding its development. At the
appropriate time, don Genaro had
made me notice his presence, and when don Juan and I were walking back
to the house, he
followed us in the most obvious manner in order to arouse my fear. Then
he had waited in the
chaparral and made the strange sound whenever don Juan had signaled
him. The final signal to
come out from behind the bushes must have been given by don Juan while
my eyes were closed
after he had asked me to "call" don Genaro. Then don Genaro must have
walked to the ramada
and waited until I opened my eyes and then scared me out of my wits.
The only incongruencies in my logical explanatory scheme were that I
had actually seen the
man hiding in the bushes turn into a bird, and that I had first
visualized don Genaro as an image
in a golden bubble. In my vision he had been dressed exactly as he was
in person. Since there
was no logical way for me to explain those incongruencies, I assumed,
as I have always done in
similar circumstances, that the emotional stress may have played an
important role in
determining what I "believed I saw."
I began to laugh quite involuntarily at the thought of their
preposterous trick. I told them
about my deductions. They laughed uproariously. I honestly believed
that their laughter was the
giveaway.
"You were hiding in the bushes, weren't you?" I asked don Genaro.
Don Juan sat down and held his head in both hands.
"No. I wasn't hiding," don Genaro said patiently. "I was far from here
and then you called, so
I came to see you."
"Where were you, don Genaro?"
"Far away."
"How far?"
Don Juan interrupted me and said that don Genaro had showed up as an
act of deference to
me, and that I could not ask where he had been, because he had been
nowhere.
Don Genaro came to my defense and said that it was all right to ask him
anything.
"If you were not hiding around the house, where were you, don Genaro?"
I asked.
"I was at my house," he said with great candor.
"In central Mexico?"
"Yes! It's the only house I've got."
They looked at each other and again broke into laughter. I knew that
they were kidding me,
but I decided not to contest the point any further. I thought they must
have had a reason for
engaging themselves in such an elaborate production. I sat down.
I felt that I was truthfully cut in two; some part of me was not
shocked at all and could accept
23
any of don Juan or don Genaro's acts at their face value. But there was
another part of me that
flatly refused; it was my strongest part. My conscious assessment was
that I had accepted don
Juan's sorcery description of the world merely on an intellectual
basis, while my body as a whole
entity refused it, thus my dilemma. But then over the course of the
years of my association with
don Juan and don Genaro I had experienced extraordinary phenomena and
those had been bodily
experiences, not intellectual ones. Earlier that very night I had
executed the "gait of power,"
which, from the point of view of my intellect, was an inconceivable
accomplishment; and best of
all, I had had incredible visions through no other means than my own
volition.
I explained to them the nature of my painful and at the same time bona
fide perplexity.
"This guy is a genius," don Juan said to don Genaro, shaking his head
in disbelief.
"You're a huge genius, Carlitos," don Genaro said as if he were
relaying a message.
They sat down on either side of me, don Juan to my right and don Genaro
to my left. Don
Juan observed that soon it was going to be morning. At that instant I
again heard the moth's call.
It had moved. The sound was coming from the opposite direction. I
looked at both of them,
holding their gaze. My logical scheme began to disintegrate.
The sound had a mesmerizing richness and depth. Then I heard muffled
steps, soft feet
crushing the dry underbrush. The sputtering sound came closer and I
huddled against don Juan.
He dryly ordered me to see it. I made a supreme effort, not so much to
please him as to please
myself. I had been sure that don Genaro was the moth. But don Genaro
was sitting with me;
what, then, was in the bushes? A moth?
The sputtering sound echoed in my ears. I could not stop my internal
dialogue altogether. I
heard the sound but I could not feel it in my body as I had done
earlier. I heard definite steps.
Something was creeping in the dark. There was a loud cracking noise, as
if a branch had been
snapped in two, and suddenly a terrifying memory seized me. Years
before I had spent a dreadful
night in the wilderness and had been harassed by something, something
very light and soft that
had stepped on my neck over and over while I crouched on the ground.
Don Juan had explained
the event as an encounter with the ally, a mysterious force that a
sorcerer learned to perceive as
an entity.
I leaned closer to don Juan and whispered what I had remembered. Don
Genaro crawled on
all fours to get closer to us.
"What did he say?" he asked don Juan in a whisper.
"He said that there is an ally out there," don Juan replied in a low
voice.
Don Genaro crawled back and sat down. Then he turned to me and said in
a loud whisper,
"You're a genius."
They laughed quietly. Don Genaro pointed towards the chaparral with a
movement of his
chin.
"Go out there and grab it," he said. "Take off your clothes and scare
the devil out of that
ally."
They shook with laughter. The sound in the meantime had ceased. Don
Juan ordered me to
stop my thoughts but to keep my eyes open, focused on the edge of the
chaparral in front of me.
He said that the moth had changed positions because don Genaro was
there, and that if it were
going to manifest itself to me, it would choose to come from the front.
After a moment's struggle to quiet my thoughts, I perceived the sound
again. It was richer
than ever. I heard first the muffled steps on dry twigs and then I felt
them on my body. At that
instant I distinguished a dark mass directly in front of me, at the
edge of the chaparral.
I felt I was being shaken. I opened my eyes. Don Juan and don Genaro
were standing above
me and I was kneeling, as if I had fallen asleep in a crouching
position. Don Juan gave me some
24
water and I sat down again with my back against the wall.
A short while later it was dawn. The chaparral seemed to wake up. The
morning cold was
crisp and invigorating.
The moth had not been don Genaro. My rational structure was falling
apart. I did not want to
ask any more questions, nor did I want to remain quiet. I finally had
to talk.
"But if you were in central Mexico, don Genaro, how did you get here?"
I asked.
Don Genaro made some ludicrous and utterly hilarious gestures with his
mouth.
"I'm sorry," he said to me, "my mouth doesn't want to talk."
He then turned to don Juan and said, grinning, "Why don't you tell him?"
Don Juan vacillated. Then he said that don Genaro, as a consummate
artist of sorcery, was
capable of prodigious deeds.
Don Genaro's chest swelled as if don Juan's words were inflating it. He
seemed to have
inhaled so much air that his chest looked twice its normal size. He
appeared to be on the verge of
floating. He leaped in the air. I had the impression that the air
inside his lungs had forced him to
jump. He paced back and forth on the dirt floor until he apparently got
his chest under control; he
patted it and with great force ran the palms of his hands from his
pectoral muscles to his stomach
as if he were deflating the inner tube of a tire. He finally sat down.
Don Juan was grinning. His eyes were shining with sheer delight.
"Write your notes," he ordered me softly. "Write, write or you'll die!"
Then he remarked that even don Genaro no longer felt that my taking
notes was so outlandish.
"That's right!" don Genaro retorted. "I've been thinking of taking up
writing myself."
"Genaro is a man of knowledge," don Juan said dryly. "And being a man
of knowledge, he's
perfectly capable of transporting himself over great distances."
He reminded me that once, years before, the three of us had been in the
mountains, and that
don Genaro, in an effort to help me overcome my stupid reason, had
taken a prodigious leap to
the peaks of the Sierras, ten miles away. I remembered the event, but I
also remembered that I
could not even conceive that he had jumped.
Don Juan added that don Genaro was capable of performing extraordinary
feats at certain
times.
"Genaro at certain times is not Genaro but his double," he said.
He repeated it three or four times. Then both of them watched me as if
waiting for my
impending reaction.
I had not understood what he meant by "his double." He had never
mentioned that before. I
asked for a clarification.
"There is another Genaro," he explained.
All three of us looked at one another. I became very apprehensive. Don
Juan urged me with a
movement of his eyes to keep on talking.
"Do you have a twin brother?" I asked, turning to don Genaro.
"Of course," he said. "I have a twin."
I could not determine whether or not they were putting me on. They both
giggled with the
abandon of children that were pulling a prank.
"You may say," don Juan went on, "that at this moment Genaro is his
twin."
That statement brought both of them to the ground with laughter. But I
could not enjoy their
mirth. My body shivered involuntarily.
Don Juan said in a severe tone that I was too heavy and self-important.
"Let go!" he commanded me dryly. "You know that Genaro is a sorcerer
and an impeccable
warrior. So he's capable of performing deeds that would be unthinkable
for the average man. His
double, the other Genaro, is one of those deeds."
25
I was speechless. I could not conceive that they were just teasing me.
"For a warrior like Genaro," he went on, "to produce the other is not
such a farfetched
enterprise."
After pondering for a long time what to say next, I asked, "Is the
other like the self?"
"The other is the self," don Juan replied.
His explanation had taken an incredible turn, and yet it was not really
more incredible than
anything else they did.
"What's the other made of?" I asked don Juan after minutes of
indecision.
"There is no way of knowing that," he said.
"Is it real or just an illusion?"
"It's real of course."
"Would it be possible then to say that it is made of flesh and blood?"
I asked.
"No. It would not be possible," don Genaro answered.
"But if it is as real as I am . . ."
"As real as you?" don Juan and don Genaro interjected in unison.
They looked at each other and laughed until I thought they were going
to get ill. Don Genaro
threw his hat on the floor and danced around it. His dance was agile
and graceful and, for some
inexplicable reason, utterly funny. Perhaps the humor was in the
exquisitely "professional"
movements he executed. The incongruency was so subtle and at the same
time so remarkable that
I doubled up with laughter.
"The trouble with you, Carlitos," he said as he sat down again, "is
that you're a genius."
"I have to know about the double," I said.
"There's no way of knowing whether he's flesh and blood," don Juan
said. "Because he is not
as real as you. Genaro's double is as real as Genaro. Do you see what I
mean?"
"But you have to admit, don Juan, that there must be a way to know."
"The double is the self; that explanation should suffice. If you would
see, however, you'd
know that there is a great difference between Genaro and his double.
For a sorcerer who sees, the
double is brighter."
I felt I was too weak to ask any more questions. I put my writing pad
down and for a moment
I thought I was going to pass out. I had tunnel vision; everything
around me was dark with the
exception of a round spot of clear scenery in front of my eyes.
Don Juan said that I had to get some food. I was not hungry. Don Genaro
announced that he
was famished, stood up and went to the back of the house. Don Juan also
stood up and signaled
me to follow. In the kitchen, don Genaro gave himself a serving of food
and then became
involved in the most comical mimicking of a person who wants to eat but
can't swallow. I
thought that don Juan was going to die; he roared, kicked, cried,
coughed and choked with
laughter. I thought I too was going to split my sides. Don Genaro's
antics were priceless.
He finally gave up and looked at don Juan and me in succession; he had
shiny eyes and a
beaming smile.
"It doesn't work," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
I ate a huge amount of food, and so did don Juan; then all of us
returned to the front of the
house. The sunlight was brilliant, the sky was clear and the morning
breeze sharpened the air. I
felt happy and strong.
We sat in a triangle facing one another. After a polite silence I
decided to ask them to clarify
my dilemma. I felt that I was again in top form and wanted to exploit
my strength.
"Tell me more about the double, don Juan," I said.
Don Juan pointed at don Genaro and don Genaro bowed.
"There he is," don Juan said. "There is nothing to tell. He's here for
you to witness him."
26
"But he's don Genaro," I said in a feeble attempt to guide the
conversation.
"Surely I'm Genaro," he said and perked his shoulders.
"What is a double then, don Genaro?" I asked.
"Ask him," he snapped, pointing to don Juan. "He's the one who talks.
I'm dumb."
"A double is the sorcerer himself, developed through his dreaming" don
Juan explained. "A
double is an act of power to a sorcerer but only a tale of power to
you. In the case of Genaro, his
double is indistinguishable from the original. That's because his
impeccability as a warrior is
supreme; thus, you've never noticed the difference yourself. But in the
years that you've known
him, you've been with the original Genaro only twice; every other time
you've been with his
double."
"But this is preposterous!" I exclaimed.
I felt an anxiety building up in my chest. I became so agitated that I
dropped my writing pad,
and my pencil rolled out of sight. Don Juan and don Genaro practically
dove to the ground and
began the most farcical search for it. I had never seen a more
astonishing performance of
theatrical magic and sleight of hand. Except that there was no stage,
or props, or any type of
gadgetry, and most likely the performers were not using sleight of hand.
Don Genaro, the head magician, and his assistant, don Juan, produced in
a matter of minutes
the most astounding, bizarre and outlandish collection of objects which
they found underneath,
or behind, or above every object within the periphery of the ramada.
In the style of stage magic, the assistant set up the props, which in
this case were the few
items on the dirt floor - rocks, burlap sacks, pieces of wood, a milk
crate, a lantern and my jacket
- then the magician, don Genaro, would proceed to find an object, which
he would throw away as
soon as he had attested that it was not my pencil. The collection of
objects found included pieces
of clothing, wigs, eyeglasses, toys, utensils, pieces of machinery,
women's underwear, human
teeth, sandwiches, and religious objects. One of them was outright
disgusting. It was a piece of
compact human excrement that don Genaro took from underneath my jacket.
Finally, don
Genaro found my pencil and handed it to me after dusting it off with
the tail of his shirt.
They celebrated their clowning with yells and chuckles. I found myself
watching, unable to
join them.
"Don't take things so seriously, Carlitos," don Genaro said with a tone
of concern. "Otherwise
you're going to bust a ..."
He made a ludicrous gesture that could have meant anything.
After their laughter subsided I asked don Genaro what a double did, or
what a sorcerer did
with the double.
Don Juan answered. He said that the double had power, and that it was
used to accomplish
feats that would be unimaginable under ordinary terms.
"I've told you time and time again that the world is unfathomable," he
said to me. "And so are
we, and so is every being that exists in this world. It is impossible,
therefore, to reason out the
double. You've been allowed to witness it, though, and that should be
more than enough."
"But there must be a way to talk about it," I said. "You yourself have
told me that you
explained your conversation with the deer in order to talk about it.
Can't you do the same with
the double?"
He was quiet for a moment. I pleaded with him. The anxiety I was
experiencing was beyond
anything I had ever gone through.
"Well, a sorcerer can double up," don Juan said. "That's all one can
say."
"But is he aware that he is doubled?"
"Of course he's aware of it."
27
"Does he know that he is in two places at once?"
Both of them looked at me and then they exchanged a glance.
"Where is the other don Genaro?" I asked.
Don Genaro leaned towards me and stared into my eyes.
"I don't know," he said softly. "No sorcerer knows where his other is."
"Genaro is right," don Juan said. "A sorcerer has no notion that he is
in two places at once.
To be aware of that would be the equivalent of facing his double, and
the sorcerer that finds
himself face to face with himself is a dead sorcerer. That is the rule.
That is the way power has
set things up. No one knows why."
Don Juan explained that by the time a warrior had conquered dreaming
and seeing and had
developed a double, he must have also succeeded in erasing personal
history, self-importance,
and routines. He said that all the techniques which he had taught me
and which I had considered
to be empty talk were, in essence, means for removing the
impracticality of having a double in
the ordinary world, by making the self and the world fluid, and by
placing them outside the
bounds of prediction.
"A fluid warrior can no longer make the world chronological," don Juan
explained. "And for
him, the world and himself are no longer objects. He's a luminous being
existing in a luminous
world. The double is a simple affair for a sorcerer because he knows
what he's doing. To take
notes is a simple affair for you, but you still scare Genaro with your
pencil."
"Can an outsider, looking at a sorcerer, see that he is in two places
at once?" I asked don
Juan.
"Certainly. That would be the only way to know it."
"But can't one logically assume that the sorcerer would also notice
that he has been in two
places?"
"Aha!" don Juan exclaimed. "For once you've got it right. A sorcerer
may certainly notice
afterwards that he has been in two places at once. But this is only
bookkeeping and has no
bearing on the fact that while he's acting he has no notion of his
duality."
My mind boggled. I felt that if I did not keep on writing I would
explode.
"Think of this," he went on. "The world doesn't yield to us directly,
the description of the
world stands in between. So, properly speaking, we are always one step
removed and our
experience of the world is always a recollection of the experience. We
are perennially
recollecting the instant that has just happened, just passed. We
recollect, recollect, recollect."
He turned his hand over and over to give me the feeling of what he
meant.
"If our entire experience of the world is recollection, then it's not
so outlandish to conclude
that a sorcerer can be in two places at once. This is not the case from
the point of view of his own
perception, because in order to experience the world, a sorcerer, like
every other man, has to
recollect the act he has just performed, the event he has just
witnessed, the experience he has just
lived. In his awareness there is only a single recollection. But for an
outsider looking at the
sorcerer it may appear as if the sorcerer is acting two different
episodes at once. The sorcerer,
however, recollects two separate single instants, because the glue of
the description of time is no
longer binding him."
When don Juan had finished talking I was sure I was running a
temperature.
Don Genaro examined me with curious eyes.
"He's right," he said. "We're always one jump behind."
He moved his hand as don Juan had done; his body started to jerk and he
jumped back on his
seat. It was as if he had the hiccups and the hiccups were forcing his
body to jump back. He
began to move backwards, jumping on his seat, and went all the way to
the end of the ramada
28
and back.
The sight of don Genaro leaping backwards on his buttocks, instead of
being funny as it
should have been, threw me into an attack of fear so intense that don
Juan had to strike me
repeatedly on the top of my head with his knuckles.
"I just can't grasp all this, don Juan," I said.
"I can't either," don Juan retorted, shrugging his shoulders.
"Neither can I, dear Carlitos," don Genaro added.
My fatigue, the bulk of my sensory experience, the mood of lightness
and humor that
prevailed, and don Genaro's clowning were too much for my nerves. I
could not stop the
agitation in my stomach muscles.
Don Juan made me roll on the ground until I had regained my calmness,
then I sat down
facing them again.
"Is the double solid?" I asked don Juan after a long silence.
They looked at me.
"Does the double have corporealness?" I asked.
"Certainly," don Juan said. "Solidity, corporealness are memories.
Therefore, like everything
else we feel about the world, they are memories we accumulate. Memories
of the description.
You have the memory of my solidity, the same way you have the memory of
communicating
through words. Thus, you talked with a coyote and you feel me as being
solid."
Don Juan put his shoulder next to mine and nudged me lightly.
"Touch me," he said.
I patted him and then I embraced him. I was close to tears.
Don Genaro stood up and came closer to me. He looked like a small child
with shiny
mischievous eyes. He puckered up his lips and looked at me for a long
moment.
"What about me?" he asked, trying to hide a smile. "Aren't you going to
embrace me too?"
I stood up and extended my arms to touch him; my body seemed to freeze
on the spot. I had
no power to move. I tried to force my arms to reach him, but my
struggle was in vain.
Don Juan and don Genaro stood by, watching me. I felt my body
contorting under an
unknown pressure.
Don Genaro sat down and pretended to sulk because I had not embraced
him; he pouted and
hit the ground with his heels, then both of them exploded into more
roaring laughter.
The muscles of my stomach trembled, making my whole body shake. Don
Juan pointed out
that I was moving my head the way he had recommended earlier, and that
that was the chance to
soothe myself by reflecting a beam of light on the cornea of my eyes.
He forcefully dragged me
from under the roof of his ramada to the open field and manipulated my
body into position so
that my eyes would catch the eastern sunlight; but by the time he had
put my body in place, I had
stopped shivering. I noticed that I was clutching my notebook only
after don Genaro said that the
weight of the sheets was giving me the shivers.
I told don Juan that my body was pulling me to leave. I waved my hand
to don Genaro. I did
not want to give them time to make me change my mind.
"Good-by, don Genaro," I yelled. "I have to go now."
He waved back at me.
Don Juan walked a few yards with me towards my car.
"Do you also have a double, don Juan?" I asked.
"Of course!" he exclaimed.
I had at that moment a maddening thought. I wanted to discard it and
leave in a hurry but
something in myself kept on needling me. Over the course of the years
of our association, it had
become customary for me that every time I wanted to see don Juan I
would just go to Sonora or
29
central Mexico and I would always find him waiting for me. I had
learned to take that for granted
and it had never occurred to me until then to think anything of it.
"Tell me something, don Juan," I said, half in jest. "Are you yourself
or are you your
double?"
He leaned over towards me. He was grinning.
"My double," he whispered.
My body leaped in the air as if I had been propelled by a formidable
force. I ran to my car.
"I was just kidding," don Juan said in a loud voice. "You can't go yet.
You still owe me five
more days."
Both of them ran towards my car as I was backing up. They were laughing
and jumping up
and down.
"Carlitos, call me any time!" don Genaro shouted.
30
2. The Dreamer And the Dreamed
I drove to don Juan's house and arrived there in the early morning. I
had spent the night in a
motel on the way down so I would get to his house before noon.
Don Juan was in the back and came to the front when I called him. He
gave me a warm
greeting and the impression that he was pleased to see me. He made a
comment that I thought
was intended to put me at ease but produced the opposite effect.
"I heard you coming," he said as he grinned. "And I ran to the back. I
was afraid that if I had
stayed here you would've been frightened."
He casually remarked that I was somber and heavy. He said that I
reminded him of Eligio,
who was morbid enough to be a good sorcerer but too morbid to become a
man of knowledge. He
added that the only way to counteract the devasting effect of the
sorcerers' world was to laugh at
it.
He was right in his assessment of my mood. I was indeed worried and
frightened. We went
for a long walk. It took hours for my feelings to ease up. Walking with
him made me feel better
than if he had attempted to talk me out of my somberness.
We returned to his house in the late afternoon. I was famished. After
eating we sat under his
ramada. The sky was clear. The afternoon light made me feel complacent.
I wanted to talk.
"I've felt uneasy for months," I said. "There was something truly
awesome in what you and
don Genaro said and did the last time I was here."
Don Juan did not say anything. He got up and moved around the ramada.
"I've got to talk about this," I said. "It obsesses me and I can't stop
pondering upon it."
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
I was not afraid but baffled, overwhelmed by what I had heard and
witnessed. The loopholes
in my reason were so gigantic that either I had to repair them or I had
to dispose of my reason
altogether.
My comments made him laugh.
"Don't throw away your reason yet," he said. "It's not time for it.
It'll happen though, but I
don't think that now is the moment."
"Should I try to find an explanation for what happened, then?" I asked.
"Certainly!" he retorted. "It's your duty to put your mind at ease.
Warriors do not win victories
by beating their heads against walls but by overtaking the walls.
Warriors jump over the walls;
they don't demolish them."
"How can I jump over this one?" I asked.
"First of all, I think it's deadly wrong for you to regard anything in
such a serious fashion," he
said as he sat down by my side. "There are three kinds of bad habits
which we use over and over
when confronted with unusual life situations. First, we may disregard
what's happening or has
happened and feel as if it had never occurred. That one is the bigot's
way. Second, we may accept
everything at its face value and feel as if we know what's going on.
That's the pious man's way.
Third, we may become obsessed with an event because either we cannot
disregard it or we cannot
accept it wholeheartedly. That's the fool's way. Your way? There is a
fourth, the correct one, the
warrior's way. A warrior acts as if nothing had ever happened, because
he doesn't believe in
anything, yet he accepts everything at its face value. He accepts
without accepting and disregards
without disregarding. He never feels as if he knows, neither does he
feel as if nothing had ever
happened. He acts as if he is in control, even though he might be
shaking in his boots. To act in
such a manner dissipates obsession."
We were quiet for a long time. Don Juan's words were like a balm to me.
"Can I talk about don Genaro and his double?" I asked.
31
"It depends on what you want to say about him," he replied. "Are you
going to indulge in
being obsessed?"
"I want to indulge in explanations," I said. "I'm obsessed because I
haven't dared come to see
you and I haven't been able to talk about my qualms and doubts with
anyone."
"Don't you talk with your friends?"
"I do, but how could they help me?"
"I never thought that you needed help. You must cultivate the feeling
that a warrior needs
nothing. You say you need help. Help for what? You have everything
needed for the extravagant
journey that is your life. I have tried to teach you that the real
experience is to be a man, and that
what counts is being alive; life is the little detour that we are
taking now. Life in itself is
sufficient, self-explanatory and complete.
"A warrior understands this and lives accordingly; therefore, one may
say without being
presumptuous that the experience of experiences is being a warrior."
He seemed to wait for me to say something. I hesitated for a moment. I
wanted to select my
words carefully.
"If a warrior needs solace," he went on, "he simply chooses anyone and
expresses to that
person every detail of his turmoil. After all, the warrior is not
seeking to be understood or helped;
by talking he's merely relieving himself of his pressure. That is,
providing that the warrior is
given to talking; if he's not, he tells no one. But you're not living
like a warrior altogether. Not yet
anyway. And the pitfalls that you encounter must be truly monumental.
You have all my
sympathy."
He was not being facetious. Judging by the concern in his eyes, he
seemed to be one who had
been there himself. He stood up and patted me on the head. He walked
back and forth the length
of the ramada and looked casually to the chaparral around the house.
His movements evoked a
sensation of restlessness in me.
In order to relax I began to talk about my dilemma. I felt that it was
inherently too late for me
to pretend to be an innocent bystander. Under his guidance I had
trained myself to achieve
strange perceptions, such as "stopping the internal dialogue," and
controlling my dreams. Those
were instances that could not be faked. I had followed his suggestions,
although never to the
letter, and had partially succeeded in disrupting daily routines,
assuming responsibility for my
acts, erasing personal history and had finally arrived at a point which
years before I had dreaded;
I was capable of being alone without disrupting my physical or
emotional well-being. That was
perhaps my single most astounding triumph. From the point of view of my
former expectations
and moods, to be alone and not "go out of my mind" was an inconceivable
state. I was keenly
aware of all the changes that had taken place in my life and in my view
of the world, and I was
also aware that it was somehow superfluous to be affected so profoundly
by don Juan and don
Genaro's revelation about the double.
"What's wrong with me, don Juan?" I asked.
"You indulge," he snapped. "You feel that indulging in doubts and
tribulations is the sign of a
sensitive man. Well, the truth of the matter is that you're the
farthest thing from being sensitive.
So why pretend? I told you the other day, a warrior accepts in
humbleness what he is."
"You make it sound as if I were confusing myself deliberately," I said.
"We do confuse ourselves deliberately," he said. "All of us are aware
of our doings. Our puny
reason deliberately makes itself into the monster it fancies itself to
be. It's too little for such a big
mold, though."
I explained to him that my dilemma was perhaps more complex than what
he was making it
out to be. I said that as long as he and don Genaro were men like
myself their superior control
made them models for my own behavior. But if they were in essence men
drastically different
32
than I, then I could not conceive of them any longer as models, but as
oddities, which I could not
possibly aspire to emulate.
"Genaro is a man," don Juan said in a reassuring tone. "He's no longer
a man like yourself,
true. But that's his accomplishment and it shouldn't give rise to fear
on your part. If he's different,
the more reason to admire him."
"But his difference is not a human difference," I said.
"And what do you think it is? The difference between a man and a horse?"
"I don't know. But he's not like me."
"He was at one time, though."
"But can his change be understood by me?"
"Of course. You yourself are changing."
"Do you mean that I will develop a double?"
"No one develops a double. That's only a way of talking about it. You,
for all the talking you
do, are a sap for words. You get trapped by their meanings. Now you
think that one develops a
double through evil means, I suppose. All of us luminous beings have a
double. All of us! A
warrior learns to be aware of it, that's all. There are seemingly
insurmountable barriers protecting
that awareness. But that's expected; those barriers are what makes
arriving at that awareness such
a unique challenge."
"Why am I so afraid of it, don Juan?"
"Because you're thinking that the double is what the word says, a
double, or another you. I
chose those words in order to describe it. The double is oneself and
cannot be faced in any other
way."
"What if I don't want to have it?"
"The double is not a matter of personal choice. Neither is it a matter
of personal choice who is
selected to learn the sorcerers' knowledge that leads to that
awareness. Have you ever asked
yourself, why you in particular?"
"All the time. I've asked you that question hundreds of times but
you've never answered it."
"I didn't mean that you should ask it as a question that begs an
answer, but in the sense of a
warrior's pondering on his great fortune, the fortune of having found a
challenge.
"To make it into an ordinary question is the device of a conceited
ordinary man who wants to
be either admired or pitied for it. I have no interest in that kind of
question, because there is no
way of answering it. The decision of picking you was a design of power;
no one can discern the
designs of power. Now that you've been selected, there is nothing that
you can do to stop the
fulfillment of that design."
"But you yourself told me, don Juan, that one can always fail."
"That's true. One can always fail. But I think that you are referring
to something else. You
want to find a way out. You want to have the freedom to fail and quit
on your own terms. Too
late for that. A warrior is in the hands of power and his only freedom
is to choose an impeccable
life. There is no way to fake triumph or defeat. Your reason may want
you to fail altogether in
order to obliterate the totality of yourself. But there is a
countermeasure which will not permit
you to declare a false victory or defeat. If you think that you can
retreat to the haven of failure,
you're out of your mind. Your body will stand guard and will not let
you go either way."
He began to chuckle softly.
"Why do you laugh?" I asked.
"You're in a terrible spot," he said. "It's too late for you to retreat
but too soon to act. All you
can do is witness. You're in the miserable position of an infant who
cannot return to the mother's
womb, but neither can he run around and act. All an infant can do is
witness and listen to the
33
stupendous tales of action being told to him. You are at that precise
point now. You cannot go
back to the womb of your old world, but you cannot act with power
either. For you there is only
witnessing acts of power and listening to tales, tales of power.
"The double is one of those tales. You know that, and that's why your
reason is so taken by it.
You are beating your head against a wall if you pretend to understand.
All that I can say about it,
by way of explanation, is that the double, although it is arrived at
through dreaming, is as real as
it can be."
"According to what you've told me, don Juan, the double can perform
acts. Can the double
then . . .?"
He did not let me continue with my line of reasoning. He reminded me
that it was
inappropriate to say that he had told me about the double, when I could
say that I had witnessed
it.
"Obviously the double can perform acts," I said.
"Obviously!" he replied.
"But can the double act in behalf of the self?"
"It is the self, damn it!"
I found it very difficult to explain myself. I had in mind that if a
sorcerer could perform two
actions at once, his capacity for utilitarian production had to double.
He could work two jobs, be
in two places, see two persons, and so on, at once.
Don Juan listened patiently.
"Let me put it this way," I said. "Hypothetically, can don Genaro kill
someone hundreds of
miles away by letting his double do it?"
Don Juan looked at me. He shook his head and moved his eyes away.
"You're filled with tales of violence," he said. "Genaro cannot kill
anyone, simply because he
no longer has any interest in his fellow men. By the time a warrior is
capable of conquering
seeing and dreaming and having the awareness of his luminosity, there
is no such interest left in
him."
I pointed out that at the beginning of my apprenticeship he had made
the statement that a
sorcerer, aided by his ally, could be transported over hundreds of
miles to deliver a blow to his
enemies.
"I am responsible for your confusion," he said. "But you must remember
that on another
occasion I told you that, with you, I was not following the steps my
own teacher prescribed. He
was a sorcerer and I should've properly plunged you into that world. I
didn't, because I am no
longer concerned with the ups and downs of my fellow men. Yet, my
teacher's words stuck with
me. I talked to you many times in the manner he himself would have
talked.
"Genaro is a man of knowledge. The purest of them all. His actions are
impeccable. He's
beyond ordinary men, and beyond sorcerers. His double is an expression
of his joy and his
humor. Thus, he cannot possibly use it to create or resolve ordinary
situations. As far as I know,
the double is the awareness of our state as luminous beings. It can do
anything, and yet it chooses
to be unobtrusive and gentle.
"It was my error to mislead you with borrowed words. My teacher was not
capable of
producing the effects Genaro does. For my teacher, unfortunately,
certain things were, as they are
for you, only tales of power."
I was compelled to defend my point. I said that I was speaking in a
hypothetical sense.
"There is no hypothetical sense when you speak about the world of men
of knowledge," he
said. "A man of knowledge cannot possibly act towards his fellow men in
injurious terms,
hypothetically or otherwise."
"But, what if his fellow men are plotting against his security and
well-being? Can he then use
34
his double to protect himself?"
He clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"What incredible violence in your thoughts," he said. "No one can plot
against the security and
well-being of a man of knowledge. He sees, therefore he would take
steps to avoid anything like
that. Genaro, for example, has taken a calculated risk in joining you.
But there is nothing that you
could do to endanger his security. If there is anything, his seeing
will let him know. Now, if there
is something about you that is inherently injurious to him and his
seeing cannot reach it, then it is
his fate, and neither Genaro nor anyone else can avoid that. So, you
see, a man of knowledge is in
control without controlling anything."
We were quiet. The sun was about to reach the top of the heavy tall
bushes on the west side of
the house. There were about two hours of daylight left.
"Why don't you call Genaro?" don Juan said casually.
My body jumped. My initial reaction was to drop everything and run for
my car. Don Juan
broke into a belly laugh. I told him that I did not have to prove
anything to myself, and that I was
perfectly content to talk to him. Don Juan could not stop laughing.
Finally he said that it was a
shame that don Genaro was not there to enjoy a great scene.
"Look, if you're not interested in calling Genaro, I am," he said in a
resolute tone. "I like his
company."
I had a terrible sour taste on the roof of my mouth. Beads of
perspiration ran down from my
brow and my upper lip. I wanted to say something but there was really
nothing to say.
Don Juan gave me a long, scrutinizing look.
"Come on," he said. "A warrior is always ready. To be a warrior is not
a simple matter of
wishing to be one. It is rather an endless struggle that will go on to
the very last moment of our
lives. Nobody is born a warrior, in exactly the same way that nobody is
born a reasonable being.
We make ourselves into one or the other.
"Pull yourself together. I don't want Genaro to see you shivering like
this."
He stood up and paced back and forth on the clean floor of the ramada.
I could not remain
impassive. My nervousness was so intense that I could not write any
more and I jumped to my
feet.
Don Juan made me jog on the spot, facing the west. He had made me
perform the same
movements before on various occasions. The idea was to draw power from
the impending
twilight by raising one's arms to the sky with the fingers stretched,
like a fan, and then clasp them
forcefully when the arms were in the mid point between the horizon and
the zenith.
The exercise worked and I became almost instantly calm and collected. I
could not avoid
wondering, however, what had happened to the old "me" that could never
have relaxed so
completely by performing those simple and idiotic movements.
I wanted to focus all my attention on the procedure that don Juan was
doubtlessly going to
follow to call don Genaro. I anticipated some portentous acts. Don Juan
stood on the edge of the
ramada facing the southeast, cupped his hands around his mouth, and
yelled, "Genaro! Come
here!"
A moment later don Genaro emerged from the chaparral. Both of them were
beaming. They
practically danced in front of me.
Don Genaro greeted me effusively and then sat down on the milk crate.
There was something dreadfully wrong with me. I was calm, unruffled.
Some incredible state
of indifference and aloofness had taken over my entire being. It was
almost as if I were watching
myself from a hiding place. In a very nonchalant manner I proceeded to
tell don Genaro that
during my last visit he had nearly scared me to death, and that not
even during my experiences
35
with psychotropic plants had I been in such a complete state of chaos.
Both of them celebrated
my statements as if they were meant to be funny. I laughed with them.
They obviously were aware of my state of emotional numbness. They
watched me and
humored me as if I were drunk.
There was something inside me that fought desperately to turn the
situation into something
familiar. I wanted to be concerned and afraid.
Don Juan finally splashed some water on my face and urged me to sit
down and take notes.
He said, as he had done before, that either I took notes or I died. The
mere act of putting down
some words brought back my familiar mood. It was as if something became
crystal clear again,
something that a moment before had been opaque and numb.
The advent of my usual self also meant the advent of my usual fears.
Strangely enough I was
less afraid of being afraid than of being unafraid. The familiarity of
my old habits, no matter how
unpleasant they were, was a delightful respite.
I fully realized then that don Genaro had just emerged from the
chaparral. My usual processes
were beginning to function. I started by refusing to think or speculate
about the event. I made the
resolution of not asking him anything. I was going to be a silent
witness this time.
"Genaro has come again, exclusively for you," don Juan said.
Don Genaro was leaning against the wall of the house, resting his back
against it while he sat
on a tilted milk crate. He looked as if he were riding on horseback.
His hands were in front of
him, giving the impression that he was holding the reins of a horse.
"That's right, Carlitos," he said and brought the milk crate to rest on
the ground.
He dismounted, whirling his right leg over an imaginary neck of a
horse, and then jumped to
the ground. His movements were so perfectly executed that he gave me
the unquestionable
sensation that he had arrived on horseback. He came to my side and sat
down to my left.
"Genaro has come because he wants to tell you about the other," don
Juan said.
He made a gesture of giving don Genaro the floor. Don Genaro bowed. He
turned slightly to
face me.
"What would you like to know, Carlitos?" he asked in a high-pitched
voice.
"Well, if you're going to tell me about the double, tell me
everything," I said, feigning
casualness.
Both of them shook their heads and glanced at each other.
"Genaro is going to tell you about the dreamer and the dreamed," don
Juan said.
"As you know, Carlitos," don Genaro said with the air of an orator
warming up, "the double
begins in dreaming."
He gave me a long look and smiled. His eyes swept from my face to my
notebook and pencil.
"The double is a dream," he said, scratched his arms and then stood up.
He walked to the edge of the ramada and stepped out into the chaparral.
He stood by a bush
showing three fourths of his profile to us; he was apparently
urinating. After a moment I noticed
that there seemed to be something wrong with him. He appeared to be
trying desperately to
urinate but could not. Don Juan's laughter was the clue that don Genaro
was clowning again. Don
Genaro contorted his body in such a comical fashion that he had don
Juan and me practically in
hysterics.
Don Genaro came back to the ramada and sat down. His smile radiated a
rare warmth.
"When you can't, you just can't," he said and shrugged his shoulders.
Then after a moment's pause he added, sighing, "Yes, Carlitos, the
double is a dream."
"Do you mean that he's not real?" I asked.
"No. I mean that he is a dream," he retorted.
36
Don Juan intervened and explained that don Genaro was referring to the
first emergence of
the awareness that we are luminous beings.
"Each one of us is different, and thus the details of our struggles are
different," don Juan said.
"The steps that we follow to arrive at the double are the same, though.
Especially the beginning
steps, which are muddled and uncertain."
Don Genaro agreed and made a comment on the uncertainty that a sorcerer
had at that stage.
"When it first happened to me, I didn't know it had happened," he
explained. "One day I had
been picking plants in the mountains. I had gone into a place that was
worked by other herb
collectors. I had two huge sacks of plants. I was ready to go home, but
before I did I decided to
take a moment's rest. I lay down on the side of the trail in the shade
of a tree and I fell asleep. I
heard then the sound of people coming down the hill and woke up. I
hurriedly ran for cover and
hid behind some bushes a short distance across the road from where I
had fallen asleep. While I
hid there I had the nagging impression I had forgotten something. I
looked to see if I had my two
sacks of plants. I didn't have them. I looked across the road to the
place where I had been sleeping
and I nearly dropped my pants with fright. I was still there asleep! It
was me! I touched my body.
I was myself! By that time the people that were coming down the hill
were upon the me that was
asleep, while the me that was fully awake looked helplessly from my
hiding place. Damn it to
hell! They were going to find me there and take my sacks away. But they
went by me as if I were
not there at all.
"My vision had been so vivid that I went wild. I screamed and then I
woke up again. Damn it!
It had been a dream!"
Don Genaro stopped his account and looked at me as if waiting for a
question or a comment.
"Tell him where you woke up the second time," don Juan said.
"I woke up by the road," don Genaro said, "where I had fallen asleep.
But for one moment I
didn't quite know where I really was. I can almost say that I was still
looking at myself waking
up, then something pulled me to the side of the road and I found myself
rubbing my eyes."
There was a long pause. I did not know what to say.
"And what did you do next?" don Juan asked.
I realized, when both of them began to laugh, that he was teasing me.
He was imitating my
questions.
Don Genaro went on talking. He said that he was stunned for a moment
and then went to
check everything.
"The place where I had hid was there exactly as I had seen it," he
said. "And the people who
had walked by me were down the road, a short distance away. I know it
because I ran downhill
after them. They were the same people I had seen. I followed them until
they got to town. They
must have thought I was mad. I asked them if they had seen my friend
sleeping by the side of the
road. They all said they hadn't."
"You see," don Juan said, "all of us go through the same doubts. We are
afraid of being mad;
unfortunately for us, of course, all of us are already mad."
"You are a tinge madder than us, though," don Genaro said to me and
winked. "And more
suspicious."
They teased me about my suspiciousness. And then don Genaro began to
talk again.
"All of us are dense beings," he said. "You're not the only one,
Carlitos. I was a bit shook up
by my dream for a couple of days, but then I had to work for my living
and take care of too many
things and really had no time for pondering upon the mystery of my
dreams. So I forgot about it
in no time at all. I was very much like you.
"But one day, a few months later, after a terribly tiring day, I fell
asleep like a log in
midafternoon. It had just started to rain and a leak in the roof woke
me up. I jumped out of bed
37
and climbed on top of the house to fix the leak before it began to
pour. I felt so fine and strong
that I finished in one minute and I didn't even get wet. I thought that
the snooze I had taken had
done me a lot of good. When I was through I went back into the house to
get something to eat and
I realized that I could not swallow. I thought I was sick. I mashed
some roots and leaves and
wrapped them around my neck and went to my bed. And then again when I
got to my bed I
nearly dropped my pants. I was there in bed asleep! I wanted to shake
myself and wake me up,
but I knew that that was not the thing one should do. So I ran out of
the house. I was panicstricken.
I roamed around the hills aimlessly. I had no idea where I was going
and although I had
lived all my life there I got lost. I walked in the rain and didn't
even feel it. It seemed that I
couldn't think. Then the lightning and thunder became so intense that I
woke up again."
He paused for a moment.
"Do you want to know where I woke up?" he asked me.
"Certainly," don Juan answered.
"I woke up in the hills in the rain," he said.
"But how did you know that you had woken up?" I asked.
"My body knew it," he replied.
"That was a stupid question," don Juan interjected. "You yourself know
that something in the
warrior is always aware of every change. It is precisely the aim of the
warrior's way to foster and
maintain that awareness. The warrior cleans it, shines it, and keeps it
running."
He was right. I had to admit to them that I knew that there was
something in me that registered
and was aware of everything I did. And yet it had nothing to do with
the ordinary awareness of
myself. It was something else which I could not pin down. I told them
that perhaps don Genaro
could describe it better than I.
"You're doing very well yourself," don Genaro said. "It's an inner
voice that tells you what's
what. And at that time, it told me that I had woken up a second time.
Of course, as soon as I woke
up I became convinced that I must have been dreaming. Obviously it had
not been an ordinary
dream, but it hadn't been dreaming proper either. So I settled for
something else: walking in my
sleep, half awake, I suppose. I could not understand it in any other
way."
Don Genaro said that his benefactor had explained to him that what he
had gone through was
not a dream at all, and that he should not insist on regarding it as
walking in his sleep.
"What did he tell you that it was?" I asked.
They exchanged a glance.
"He told me it was the bogeyman," don Genaro replied, affecting the
tone of a small child.
I explained to them that I wanted to know if don Genaro's benefactor
explained things in the
same way they themselves did.
"Of course he did," don Juan said.
"My benefactor explained that the dream in which one was watching
oneself asleep," don
Genaro went on, "was the time of the double. He recommended that rather
than wasting my
power in wondering and asking myself questions, I should use the
opportunity to act, and that
when I had another chance I should be prepared.
"My next chance took place at my benefactor's house. I was helping him
with the housework.
I had lain down to rest and as usual I fell sound asleep. His house was
definitely a place of power
for me and helped me. I was suddenly aroused by a loud noise and
awakened. My benefactor's
house was large. He was a wealthy man and had many people working for
him. The noise seemed
to be the sound of a shovel digging in gravel. I sat up to listen and
then I stood up. The noise was
very unsettling to me but I couldn't figure out why. I was pondering
whether to go and check it
out when I noticed that I was asleep on the floor. This time I knew
what to expect and what to do
38
and I followed the noise. I walked to the back of the house. There was
no one there. The noise
seemed to come from beyond the house. I kept on following it. The more
I followed it the quicker
I could move. I ended up at a distant place, witnessing incredible
things."
He explained that at the time of those events he still was in the
beginning stages of his
apprenticeship and had done very little in the realm of dreaming, but
that he had an uncanny
facility to dream that he was looking at himself.
"Where did you go, don Genaro?" I asked.
"That was the first time that I had really moved in dreaming" he said.
"I knew enough about it
to behave correctly, though. I didn't look at anything directly and
ended up in a deep ravine where
my benefactor had some of his power plants."
"Do you think it works better if one knows very little about dreaming?"
I asked.
"No!" don Juan interjected. "Each of us has a facility for something in
particular. Genaro's
knack is for dreaming."
"What did you see in the ravine, don Genaro?" I asked.
"I saw my benefactor doing some dangerous maneuvers with people. I
thought I was there to
help him and hid behind some trees. Yet I couldn't have known how to
help. I was not dumb,
though, and I realized that the scene was there for me to watch, not to
act in."
"When and how and where did you wake up?"
"I don't know when I woke up. It must have been hours later. All I know
is that I followed my
benefactor and the other men, and when they were about to reach my
benefactor's house the noise
that they made, because they were arguing, woke me up. I was at the
place where I had seen
myself asleep.
"Upon waking up, I realized that whatever I had seen and done was not a
dream. I had actually
gone some distance away, guided by the sound."
"Was your benefactor aware of what you were doing?"
"Certainly. He had been making the noise with the shovel to help me
accomplish my task.
When he walked into the house he pretended to scold me for falling
asleep. I knew that he had
seen me. Later on, after his friends had left, he told me that he had
noticed my glow hiding
behind the trees."
Don Genaro said that those three instances set him off on the path of
dreaming, and that it
took him fifteen years to have his next chance.
"The fourth time was a more bizarre and a more complete vision," he
said. "I found myself
asleep in the middle of a cultivated field. I saw myself lying there on
my side sound asleep. I
knew that it was dreaming, because I had set myself to do dreaming
every night. Usually, every
time I had seen myself asleep, I was at the site where I had gone to
sleep. This time I was not in
my bed, and I knew I had gone to bed that night. In this dreaming it
was daytime. So, I began to
explore. I moved away from the place where I was lying and oriented
myself. I knew where I
was. I was actually not too far from my house, perhaps a couple of
miles away. I walked around
looking at every detail of the place. I stood in the shade of a big
tree a short distance away and
peered across a flat strip of land to some corn fields on the side of a
hill. Something quite unusual
struck me then; the details of the surroundings did not change or
vanish no matter how long I
peered at them. I got scared and ran back to where I was sleeping. I
was still there exactly as I
had been before. I began to watch myself. I had an eerie feeling of
indifference towards the body
I was watching.
"Then I heard the sound of people approaching. People always seemed to
be around for me. I
ran up ahead to a small hill and carefully watched from there. There
were ten people coming to
the field where I was. They were all young men. I ran back to where I
was lying and went
39
through one of the most agonizing times of my life, while I faced
myself, lying there snoring like
a pig. I knew that I had to awaken me but I had no idea how. I also
knew that it was deadly for
me to awaken myself. But if those young men were to find me there they
were going to be very
upset. All those deliberations that were going through my mind were not
really thoughts. They
were more appropriately scenes in front of my eyes. My worrying, for
instance, was a scene in
which I looked at myself while I had the sensation of being boxed in. I
call that worrying. It has
happened to me a number of times after that first time.
"Well, since I didn't know what to do I stood looking at myself,
waiting for the worst. A
bunch of fleeting images went past me in front of my eyes. I hung on to
one in particular, the
sight of my house and my bed. The image became very clear. Oh, how I
wished to be back in my
bed! Something shook me then; it felt like someone was hitting me and I
woke up. I was on my
bed! Obviously, I had been dreaming. I jumped out of bed and ran to the
place of my dreaming. It
was exactly as I had seen it. The young men were working there. I
watched them for a long time.
They were the same ones I had seen.
"I came back to the same place at the end of the day after everybody
had gone and stood at
the very spot where I had seen myself asleep. Someone had lain there.
The weeds were
crumpled!"
Don Juan and don Genaro were observing me. They looked like two strange
animals. I felt a
shiver in my back. I was on the verge of indulging in the very rational
fear that they were not
really men like myself, but don Genaro laughed.
"In those days," he said, "I was just like you, Carlitos. I wanted to
check everything. I was as
suspicious as you are."
He paused, raised his finger and shook it at me. Then he faced don Juan.
"Weren't you as suspicious as this guy?" he asked.
"Not a chance," don Juan said. "He's the champ."
Don Genaro turned to me and made a gesture of apology.
"I think I was wrong," he said. "I was not as suspicious as you."
They chuckled softly as if they did not want to make noise. Don Juan's
body convulsed with
muffled laughter.
"This is a place of power for you," don Genaro said in a whisper.
"You've written your
fingers off right where you are sitting. Have you ever done some heavy
dreaming here?"
"No, he hasn't," don Juan said in a low voice. "But he's done some
heavy writing."
They doubled up. It seemed that they did not want to laugh out loud.
Their bodies shook.
Their soft laughter was like a rhythmical cackle.
Don Genaro sat up straight and slid closer to me. He patted me on the
shoulder repeatedly,
saying that I was a rascal, then he pulled my left arm with great force
towards him. I lost my
balance and fell forward. I almost hit my face on the hard ground. I
automatically put my right
arm in front and buffered my fall. One of them held me down by pressing
on my neck. I was not
sure who. The hand that was holding me felt like don Genaro's. I had a
moment of devastating
panic. I felt I was fainting, perhaps I did. The pressure in my stomach
was so intense that I
vomited. My next clear perception was that somebody was helping me to
sit up. Don Genaro was
squatting in front of me. I turned around to look for don Juan. He was
nowhere in sight. Don
Genaro had a beaming smile. His eyes were shiny. They were looking
fixedly at mine. I asked
him what he had done to me and he said that I was in pieces. His tone
was reproachful and he
seemed to be annoyed or dissatisfied with me. He repeated various times
that I was in pieces and
that I had to come together again. He tried to feign a severe tone but
he laughed in the middle of
his harangue. He was telling me that it was just terrible that I was
spread all over the place, and
40
that he would have to use a broom to sweep all my pieces into one heap.
Then he added that I
might get the pieces in the wrong places and end up with my penis where
my thumb should be.
He cracked up at that point. I wanted to laugh and had a most unusual
sensation. My body fell
apart! It was as if I had been a mechanical toy that simply broke up
into pieces. I had no physical
feelings whatever, and neither had I any fear or concern. Coming apart
was a scene that I
witnessed from the point of view of the perceiver, and yet I did not
perceive anything from a
sensorial point of reference.
The next thing I became aware of was that don Genaro was manipulating
my body. I then had
a physical sensation, a vibration so intense that it made me lose sight
of everything around me.
I felt once more that someone was helping me to sit up. I again saw don
Genaro squatting in
front of me. He pulled me up by my armpits and helped me walk around. I
could not figure out
where I was. I had the feeling I was in a dream, and yet I had a
complete sense of sequential time.
I was keenly aware that I had just been with don Genaro and don Juan in
the ramada of don Juan's
house.
Don Genaro walked with me, propping me by holding my left armpit. The
scenery I was
watching changed constantly. I could not determine, however, the nature
of what I was observing.
What was in front of my eyes was rather like a feeling or a mood; and
the center from where all
those changes radiated was definitely in my stomach. I had made that
connection not as a thought
or a realization but as a bodily sensation that suddenly became fixed
and predominant. The
fluctuations around me came from my stomach. I was creating a world, an
endless run of feelings
and images. Everything I knew was there. That in itself was a feeling,
not a thought or a
conscious assessment.
I tried to keep tabs for a moment because of my nearly invincible habit
of assessing
everything, but at a certain instant my processes of bookkeeping ceased
and a nameless
something enveloped me, feelings and images of every sort.
At one point something in me began again the tabulation and I noticed
that one image kept on
repeating itself: don Juan and don Genaro, who were trying to reach me.
The image was fleeting,
it passed by me fast. It was something comparable to seeing them from
the window of a fastmoving
vehicle. They seemed to be trying to catch me as I went by. The image
became clearer
and it lasted longer as it kept on recurring. I consciously realized at
one point that I was
deliberately isolating it from among a myriad of other images. I sort
of breezed through the rest to
come to that particular scene. Finally I was capable of sustaining it
by thinking about it. Once I
had begun to think, my ordinary processes took over. They were not as
defined as in my ordinary
activities but clear enough to know that the scene or feeling I had
isolated was that don Juan and
don Genaro were in the ramada of don Juan's house and were holding me
by the armpits. I
wanted to keep on fleeing through other images and feelings, but they
would not let me. I
struggled for a moment. I felt bouncy and happy. I knew that I liked
both of them and I also knew
then that I was not afraid of them. I wanted to joke with them; I did
not know how and I kept on
laughing and patting them on their shoulders. I had another peculiar
awareness. I was certain that
I was dreaming. If I focused my eyes on anything, it immediately became
blurry.
Don Juan and don Genaro were talking to me. I could not keep their
words straight and I
could not distinguish which of them was talking. Don Juan then turned
my body around and
pointed to a lump on the ground. Don Genaro pulled me closer to it and
made me go around it.
The lump was a man lying on the ground. He was lying on his stomach,
his face turned to his
right. They kept on pointing out the man to me as they spoke. They
pulled me and twisted me
around him. I could not focus my eyes on him at all, but finally I had
a feeling of quietness and
sobriety and I looked at the man. I had a slow awakening into the
realization that the man lying
41
on the ground was me. My realization did not bring any terror or
discomfort. I simply accepted it
without emotion. At that moment I was not completely asleep, but
neither was I completely
awake and in sober consciousness. I also became more aware of don Juan
and don Genaro and
could tell them apart when they talked to me. Don Juan said that we
were going to go to the
round power place in the chaparral. As soon as he said it the image of
the place popped in my
mind. I saw the dark masses of bushes around it. I turned to my right;
don Juan and don Genaro
were also there. I had a jolt and the feeling that I was afraid of
them. Perhaps because they looked
like two menacing shadows. They came closer to me. As soon as I saw
their features my fears
vanished. I liked them again. It was as if I were drunk and did not
have a firm grip on anything.
They grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me in unison. They ordered
me to wake up. I could
hear their voices clearly and separately. I had then a unique moment. I
held two images in my
mind, two dreams. I felt that something in me was deeply asleep and was
waking up and I found
myself lying on the floor of the ramada with don Juan and don Genaro
shaking me. But I also was
at the power place and don Juan and don Genaro were still shaking me.
There was one crucial
instant in which I was neither in one place nor the other, but I was
rather in both places as an
observer seeing two scenes at once. I had the incredible sensation that
at that instant I could have
gone either way. All I had to do at that moment was to change
perspective and rather than watch
either scene from the outside feel it from the point of view of the
subject.
There was something very warm about don Juan's house. I preferred that
scene.
I next had a terrifying seizure, so shocking that my entire ordinary
awareness came back to
me at once. Don Juan and don Genaro were pouring buckets of water on
me. I was in the ramada
of don Juan's house.
Hours later we sat in the kitchen. Don Juan had insisted that I had to
proceed as if nothing had
happened. He gave me some food and said that I had to eat a great deal
to compensate for my
expenditure of energy.
It was after nine in the evening when I looked at my watch after we had
sat down to eat. My
experience had lasted several hours. From the point of view of my
recollection, however, it
seemed that I had just fallen asleep for a short while.
Even though I was completely myself, I still was numb. It was not until
I had begun to write
in my notebook that I regained my usual awareness. It was a surprise to
me that taking notes
could bring about instantaneous sobriety. The moment I was myself again
a barrage of reasonable
thoughts immediately came to my mind; they purported to explain the
phenomenon I had
experienced. I "knew" on the spot that don Genaro had hypnotized me the
moment he pinned me
down on the ground, but I did not attempt to figure out how he had done
it.
They both laughed hysterically when I expressed my thoughts. Don Genaro
examined my
pencil and said that the pencil was the key to wind up my mainspring. I
felt quite belligerent. I
was tired and irritable. I found myself practically yelling at them
while their bodies shook with
laughter.
Don Juan said that it was permissible to miss the boat, but not by such
a wide margin, and
that don Genaro had come exclusively to help me and show me the mystery
of the dreamer and
the dreamed.
My irritability came to a peak. Don Juan signaled don Genaro with a
movement of his head.
Both of them stood and took me around the house. There don Genaro
demonstrated his great
repertoire of animal grunts and cries. He asked me to choose one and he
taught me how to
reproduce it.
After hours of practice I got to the point where I could imitate it
quite well. The end result
was that they themselves had enjoyed my clumsy attempts and laughed
until they were practically
42
weeping, and I had released my tension by reproducing the loud cry of
an animal. I told them that
there was something truly awesome in my imitation. The relaxation of my
body was unequaled.
Don Juan said that if I would perfect the cry I could turn it into an
affair of power, or I could
simply use it to relieve my tension whenever I needed to. He suggested
I should go to sleep. But I
was afraid to fall asleep. I sat with them by the kitchen fire for a
while and then, quite
unintentionally, I fell into a deep sleep.
I woke up at dawn. Don Genaro was sleeping by the door. He seemingly
woke up at the same
time I did. They had covered me up and folded my jacket as a pillow. I
felt very calm and rested.
I commented to don Genaro that I had felt exhausted the night before.
He said that so had he. He
whispered as if he were confiding in me and told me that don Juan was
even more exhausted
because he was older.
"You and I are young," he said with a glint in his eyes. "But he's old.
He must be about three
hundred now."
I sat up hurriedly. Don Genaro covered his face with his blanket and
roared with laughter. Don
Juan came into the room at that moment.
I had a feeling of completeness and peace. For once, nothing really
mattered. I was so at ease
that I wanted to weep.
Don Juan said that the night before I had begun to be aware of my
luminosity. He admonished
me not to indulge in the sense of well-being I was having, because it
would turn into
complacency.
"At this moment," I said, "I don't want to explain anything. It doesn't
matter what don Genaro
did to me last night."
"I didn't do anything to you," don Genaro retorted. "Look, it's me,
Genaro. Your Genaro!
Touch me!"
I embraced don Genaro and we both laughed like two children.
He asked me if I thought it was strange that I could embrace him then
when last time I had
seen him there I had been unable to touch him. I assured him that those
issues were no longer
pertinent to me.
Don Juan's comment was that I was indulging in being broad-minded and
good.
"Watch out!" he said. "A warrior never lets his guard down. If you keep
on being so happy
you're going to drain the little power you have left."
"What should I do?" I asked.
"Be yourself," he said. "Doubt everything. Be suspicious."
"But I don't like to be that way, don Juan.''
"It is not a matter of whether you like it or not. What matters is,
what can you use as a shield?
A warrior must use everything avail able to him to close his mortal gap
once it opens. So, it's of
no importance that you really don't like to be suspicious or ask
questions. That's your only shield
now.
"Write, write. Or you'll die. To die with elation is a crappy way of
dying."
"How should a warrior die, then?" don Genaro asked in exactly my own
tone of voice.
"A warrior dies the hard way," don Juan said. "His death must struggle
to take him. A warrior
does not give himself to it."
Don Genaro opened his eyes to an enormous size and then blinked.
"What Genaro showed you yesterday is of utmost importance," don Juan
went on. "You can't
slough it off with piousness. Yesterday you told me that you had been
driven wild with the idea
of the double. But look at you now. You don't care any more. That's the
trouble with people that
go wild, they go wild both ways. Yesterday you were all questions,
today you are all acceptance."
43
I pointed out that he always found a flaw in what I did, regardless of
how I did it.
"That's not true!" he exclaimed. "There is no flaw in the warrior's
way. Follow it and your
acts cannot be criticized by anyone. Take yesterday as an example. The
warrior's way would have
been, first, to ask questions without fear and without suspicion and
then let Genaro show you the
mystery of the dreamer; without fighting him, or draining yourself.
Today, the warrior's way
would be to assemble what you've learned, without presumptuousness and
without piousness. Do
that and no one can find flaws in it."
I thought by his tone that don Juan must have been terribly annoyed
with my blunderings. But
he smiled at me and then giggled as if his own words had made him laugh.
I told him that I was just holding back, not wanting to burden them
with my probes. I was
indeed overwhelmed by what don Genaro had done. I had been convinced -
although it no longer
mattered - that don Genaro had been waiting in the bushes for don Juan
to call him. Then later on
he had cashed in on my fright and used it to stun me. After being held
forcibly on the ground, I
must have undoubtedly passed out, and then don Genaro must have
mesmerized me.
Don Juan argued that I was too strong to be subdued that easily.
"What took place then?" I asked him.
"Genaro came to see you to tell you something very exclusive," he said.
"When he came out
of the bushes, he was Genaro the double. There is another way to talk
about this that would
explain it better, but I can't use it now."
"Why not, don Juan?"
"Because you are not ready yet to talk about the totality of oneself.
For the time being I can
only say that this Genaro here is not the double now."
He pointed to don Genaro with a movement of his head. Don Genaro
blinked repeatedly.
"The Genaro of last night was the double. And as I told you already,
the double has
inconceivable power. He showed you a most important issue. In order to
do that he had to touch
you. The double simply tapped you on the neck, on the same spot the
ally walked over you years
ago. Naturally, you went out like a light. And naturally too, you
indulged like a son of a bitch. It
took us hours to round you up. Thus, you dissipated your power and when
the time came for you
to accomplish a warrior's feat you did not have enough sap."
"What was that warrior's feat, don Juan?"
"I told you that Genaro came to show you something, the mystery of
luminous beings as
dreamers. You wanted to know about the double. It begins in dreams. But
then you asked, “What
is the double?” And I said the double is the self. The self
dreams the double. That should be
simple, except that there is nothing simple about us. Perhaps the
ordinary dreams of the self are
simple, but that doesn't mean that the self is simple. Once it has
learned to dream the double, the
self arrives at this weird crossroad and a moment comes when one
realizes that it is the double
who dreams the self."
I had written down everything he had said. I had also paid attention to
what he was saying but
had failed to understand him.
Don Juan repeated his statements.
"The lesson last night, as I told you, was about the dreamer and the
dreamed, or who dreams
whom."
"I beg your pardon," I said.
Both of them broke into laughter.
"Last night," don Juan proceeded, "you almost chose to wake up at the
power place."
"What do you mean, don Juan?"
"That would have been the feat. If you had not indulged in your stupid
ways, you would have
44
had enough power to tip the scales, and you would've, no doubt, scared
yourself to death.
Fortunately or unfortunately, as the case may be, you did not have
enough power. In fact, you
wasted your power in worthless confusion to the point that you almost
didn't have enough to
survive.
"So, as you may very well understand, to indulge in your little quirks
is not only stupid and
wasteful but also injurious. A warrior that drains himself cannot live.
The body is not an
indestructible affair. You might have gotten gravely ill. You didn't,
simply because Genaro and I
deviated some of your crap."
The full impact of his words was beginning to take hold of me.
"Last night Genaro guided you through the intricacies of the double,"
don Juan went on. "Only
he can do that for you. And it was not a vision or a hallucination when
you saw yourself lying on
the ground. You could have realized that with infinite clarity if you
had not gotten lost in your
indulging, and you could have known then that you yourself are a dream,
that your double is
dreaming you, in the same fashion that you dreamed him last night."
"But how can that be possible, don Juan?"
"No one knows how it happens. We only know that it does happen. That's
the mystery of us as
luminous beings. Last night you had two dreams and you could have
awakened in either one, but
you didn't have enough power even to understand that."
They looked at me fixedly for a moment.
"I think he understands," don Genaro said.
45
3. The Secret of The Luminous
Beings
Don Genaro delighted me for hours with some preposterous instructions
on how to manage
my daily world. Don Juan said that I should be very careful and
serious-minded about the
recommendations made by don Genaro because, although they were funny,
they were not a joke.
Around noon don Genaro stood up and without saying a word walked into
the bushes. I was
also going to get up but don Juan gently held me down and in a solemn
voice announced that don
Genaro was going to try one more thing with me.
"What's he up to?" I asked. "What is he going to do to me?"
Don Juan assured me that I did not have to worry.
"You are approaching a crossroad," he said. "A certain crossroad that
every warrior comes to."
I had the idea that he was talking about my death. He seemed to
anticipate my question and
signaled me not to say anything.
"We won't discuss this matter," he said. "Suffice it to say that the
crossroad I'm referring to is
the sorcerers' explanation. Genaro believes you're ready for it."
"When are you going to tell me about it?"
"I don't know when. You are the recipient, therefore it is up to you.
You will have to decide
when."
"What's wrong with right now?"
"To decide doesn't mean to choose an arbitrary time," he said. "To
decide means that you have
trimmed your spirit impeccably, and that you have done everything
possible to be worthy of
knowledge and power.
"Today, however, you must solve a little riddle for Genaro. He's gone
ahead of us and he'll be
waiting somewhere in the chaparral. No one knows the spot where he'll
he, or the specific time to
go to him. If you're capable of determining the right time to leave the
house, you will also be
capable of guiding yourself to where he is."
I told don Juan that I could not imagine anyone being able to solve
such a riddle.
"How can leaving the house at a specific time guide me to where don
Genaro is?" I asked.
Don Juan smiled and began to hum a tune. He seemed to enjoy my
agitation.
"That's the problem which Genaro has set up for you," he said. "If you
have enough personal
power you will decide with absolute certainty the right time to leave
the house. How leaving at
the precise time will guide you is something that no one knows. And
yet, if you have enough
power, you yourself will attest that this is so."
"But how am I going to be guided, don Juan?"
"No one knows that either."
"I think don Genaro is pulling my leg."
"You better watch out then," he said. "If Genaro is pulling your leg
he's liable to yank it out."
Don Juan laughed at his own joke. I could not join him. My fear about
the inherent danger of
don Genaro's manipulations was too real.
"Can you give me some clues?" I asked.
"There are no clues!" he said cuttingly.
"Why does don Genaro want to do this?"
"He wants to test you," he replied. "Let's say that it is very
important for him to know whether
you can take the sorcerers' explanation. If you solve the riddle, the
implication will be that you
have stored enough personal power and you're ready. But if you flub it,
it'll be because you don't
have enough power and in that case the sorcerers' explanation won't
make any sense to you. I
think that we should give you the explanation regardless of whether you
understand it or not;
that's my idea. Genaro is a more conservative warrior; he wants things
in their proper order and
46
he won't give in until he thinks you're ready."
"Why don't you just tell me about the sorcerers' explanation yourself?"
"Because Genaro must be the one who helps you."
"Why is that so, don Juan?"
"Genaro doesn't want me to tell you why," he said. "Not yet."
"Would it hurt me to know the sorcerers' explanation?" I asked.
"I don't think so."
"Please, don Juan, tell me then."
"You must be joking. Genaro has precise ideas on this matter and we
must honor and respect
them."
He made an imperative gesture to quiet me.
After a long unnerving pause I ventured a question.
"But how can I solve this riddle, don Juan?"
"I really don't know that, thus I can't advise you what to do," he
said. "Genaro is most
efficient. He designed the riddle just for you. Since he's doing this
for your benefit, he's attuned to
you alone, therefore only you can pick the precise time to leave the
house. He will call you
himself and guide you by means of his call."
"What will his call be like?"
"I don't know. His call is for you, not for me. He'll be tapping your
will directly. In other
words, you must use your will in order to know the call.
"Genaro feels that he must make sure, at this point, that you have
stored sufficient personal
power to enable you to turn your will into a functioning unit."
Will was another concept which don Juan had delineated with great care
but without making it
clear. I had gathered from his explanations that will was a force that
emanated from the umbilical
region through an unseen opening below the navel, an opening he had
called the "gap." Will was
allegedly cultivated only by sorcerers. It came to the practitioners
veiled in mystery and
purportedly gave them the capacity to perform extraordinary acts.
I remarked to don Juan that there was no chance that anything so vague
could ever be a
functioning unit in my life.
"That's where you're wrong," he said. "The will develops in a warrior
in spite of every
opposition of the reason."
"Can't don Genaro, being a sorcerer, know whether I'm ready or not,
without testing me?" I
asked.
"He certainly can," he said. "But that knowledge won't be of any value
or consequence,
because it has nothing to do with you. You are the one who's learning,
therefore you yourself
must claim knowledge as power, not Genaro. Genaro is not concerned with
his knowing as much
as with your knowing. You must find out whether or not your will works.
This is a very difficult
point to make. In spite of what Genaro or I know about you, you must
prove to yourself that you
are in the position to claim knowledge as power. In other words, you
yourself have to be
convinced that you can exercise your will. If you're not, then you must
become convinced today.
If you cannot perform this task, then Genaro's conclusion will be that
regardless of what he might
see about you, you're not ready yet."
I experienced an overwhelming apprehension.
"Is all this necessary?" I asked.
"It's Genaro's request and must be obeyed," he said in a firm but
friendly tone.
"But what does don Genaro have to do with me?"
"You may find that out today," he said and smiled.
I pleaded with don Juan to get me out of that intolerable situation and
explain all the
47
mysterious talk. He laughed and patted my chest and made a joke about a
Mexican weight lifter
who had enormous pectoral muscles but could not do heavy physical labor
because his back was
weak.
"Watch those muscles," he said. "They shouldn't be just for show."
"My muscles have nothing to do with what you're talking about," I said
in a belligerent mood.
"They do," he replied. "The body must be perfection before the will is
a functioning unit."
Don Juan had again deviated the direction of my probing. I felt
restless and frustrated.
I stood up and went to the kitchen and drank some water. Don Juan
followed me and
suggested that I should practice the animal cry that don Genaro had
taught me. We walked to the
side of the house; I sat on a pile of wood and involved myself in
reproducing it. Don Juan made
some corrections and gave me some pointers about my breathing; the end
result was a state of
complete physical relaxation.
We returned to the ramada and sat down again. I told him that sometimes
I felt irked with
myself because I was so helpless.
"There is nothing wrong with the feeling of being helpless," he said.
"All of us are most
familiar with it. Remember that we have spent an eternity as helpless
infants. I have already told
you that at this very moment you are like an infant who can't get out
of the crib by himself, much
less act on his own. Genaro gets you out of your crib, let's say, by
picking you up. But an infant
wants to act and since he can't, he complains. There is nothing wrong
with that, but to indulge in
protesting and complaining is another matter."
He demanded that I keep myself relaxed; he suggested that I ask him
questions for a while,
until I was in a better frame of mind.
For a moment I was at a loss and could not decide what to ask.
Don Juan unrolled a straw mat and told me to sit on it. Then he filled
a large gourd with water
and put it in a carrying net. He seemed to be preparing for a journey.
He sat down again and
urged me with a movement of his eyebrows to begin my questions.
I asked him to tell me more about the moth.
He gave me a long scrutinizing look and chuckled.
"That was an ally," he said. "You know that."
"But what actually is an ally, don Juan?"
"There is no way of saying what exactly an ally is, just as there is no
way of saying what
exactly a tree is."
"A tree is a living organism," I said.
"That doesn't tell me much," he said. "I can also say that an ally is a
force, a tension. I've told
you that already, but that doesn't say much about an ally.
"Just like in the case of a tree, the only way to know what an ally is,
is by experiencing it.
Over the years I have struggled to prepare you for the momentous
encounter with an ally. You
may not realize this, but it took you years of preparation to meet
tree. To meet ally is no different.
A teacher must acquaint his disciple with ally little by little, piece
by piece. You have, over the
course of the years, stored a great amount of knowledge about it and
now you are capable of
putting that knowledge together to experience ally the way you
experience tree."
"I have no idea that I'm doing that, don Juan."
"Your reason is not aware of it, because it cannot accept the
possibility of ally to begin with.
Fortunately, it is not the reason which puts ally together. It is the
body. You have perceived ally
in many degrees and on many occasions. Each of those perceptions was
stored in your body. The
sum of those pieces is the ally. I don't know any other way of
describing it."
I said that I could not conceive that my body was acting by itself as
if it were an entity
48
separate from my reason.
"It isn't, but we have made it so," he said. "Our reason is petty and
it is always at odds with
our body. This, of course, is only a way of talking, but the triumph of
a man of knowledge is that
he has joined the two together. Since you're not a man of knowledge,
your body does things now
that your reason cannot comprehend. The ally is one of those things.
You were not mad, neither
were you dreaming when you perceived the ally that night, right here."
I asked him about the frightening idea, which he and don Genaro had
implanted in me, that
the ally was an entity waiting for me at the edge of a small valley in
the mountains of northern
Mexico. They had told me that sooner or later I had to keep my
appointment with the ally and
wrestle with it.
"Those are ways of talking about mysteries for which there are no
words," he said. "Genaro
and I said that at the edge of that plain the ally was waiting for you.
That statement was true, but
it doesn't have the meaning that you want to give it. The ally is
waiting for you, that's for sure, but
it is not at the edge of any plain. It is right here, or there, or in
any other place. The ally is waiting
for you, just like death is waiting for you, everywhere and nowhere."
"Why is the ally waiting for me?"
"For the same reason that death waits for you," he said, "because you
were born. There is no
possibility of explaining at this point what is meant by that. You must
first experience the ally.
You must perceive it in its full force, then the sorcerers' explanation
may throw light upon it. So
far you've had enough power to clarify at least one point, that the
ally is a moth.
"Some years ago you and I went to the mountains and you had a bout with
something. I had
no way of telling you then what was taking place; you saw a strange
shadow flying back and
forth in front of the fire. You yourself said that it looked like a
moth; although you didn't know
what you were talking about, you were absolutely correct, the shadow
was a moth. Then, on
another occasion, something frightened you out of your wits, after you
had fallen asleep, again in
front of a fire. I had warned you not to fall asleep, but you
disregarded my warning; that act left
you at the mercy of the ally and the moth stepped on your neck. Why you
survived will always be
a mystery to me. You didn't know then but I had given you up for dead.
Your blunder was that
serious.
"From then on every time we've been in the mountains or in the desert,
even if you didn't
notice it, the moth always followed us. All in all then, we can say
that for you the ally is a moth.
But I cannot say that it is really a moth, the way we know moths.
Calling the ally a moth is again
only a way of talking, a way of making that immensity out there
understandable."
"Is the ally a moth for you too?" I asked.
"No. The way one understands the ally is a personal matter," he said.
I mentioned that we were back where we had started; he had not told me
what an ally really
was.
"There's no need to be confused," he said. "Confusion is a mood one
enters into, but one can
also get out of it. At this point there is no way of clarifying
anything. Perhaps later on today we'll
be able to consider these matters in detail; it's up to you. Or rather,
it's up to your personal
power."
He refused to say one more word. I became quite upset with the fear
that I was going to fail
the test. Don Juan took me to the back of his house and made me sit on
a straw mat at the edge of
an irrigation ditch. The water moved so slowly that it almost seemed
stagnant. He commanded
me to sit quietly, shut off my internal dialogue and look at the water.
He said that years before he
had discovered that I had a certain affinity for bodies of water, a
feeling that was most convenient
for the endeavors I was involved in. I remarked that I was not
particularly fond of bodies of
49
water, but neither did I dislike them. He said that that was precisely
why water was beneficial for
me, I was indifferent towards it. Under conditions of stress water
could not trap me, but neither
could it reject me.
He sat slightly behind me to my right and admonished me to let go and
not be afraid, because
he was there to help me if there was any need.
I had a moment of fear. I looked at him, waiting for further
instructions. He forcibly turned
my head towards the water and ordered me to proceed. I had no idea what
he wanted me to do so
I simply relaxed. As I looked at the water I caught sight of the reeds
on the opposite side.
Unconsciously I rested my unfocused eyes on them. The slow current made
them quiver. The
water had the color of the desert dirt. I noticed that the ripples
around the reeds looked like
furrows or crevices on a smooth surface. At one instant the reeds
became gigantic, the water was
a smooth flat ocher surface, and then in a matter of seconds I was
sound asleep; or perhaps I
entered into a perceptual state for which I had no parallel. The
closest way of describing it would
be to say that I went to sleep and had a portentous dream.
I felt that I could have gone on with it indefinitely if I had wanted
to, but I deliberately ended
it by engaging myself in a conscious self-dialogue. I opened my eyes. I
was lying on the straw
mat. Don Juan was a few feet away. My dream had been so magnificent
that I began to recount it
to him. He signaled me to be quiet. With a long twig he pointed to two
long shadows that some
dry branches of desert chaparral cast on the ground. The tip of his
twig followed the outline of
one of the shadows as if it were drawing it, then it jumped to the
other and did the same with it;
the shadows were about a foot long and over an inch wide; they were
from five to six inches apart
from each other. The movement of the twig forced my eyes out of focus
and I found myself
looking with crossed eyes at four long shadows; suddenly the two
shadows in the middle merged
into one and created an extraordinary perception of depth. There was
some inexplicable
roundness and volume in the shadow thus formed. It was almost like a
transparent tube, a round
bar of some unknown substance. I knew that my eyes were crossed and yet
they seemed to be
focused on one spot; the view there was crystal clear. I could move my
eyes without dispelling
the image.
I continued watching but without letting my guard down. I experienced a
curious compulsion
to let go and immerse myself in the scene. Something in what I was
observing seemed to pull me;
but something in myself surfaced and I began a semiconscious dialogue;
almost instantly I
became aware of my surroundings in the world of everyday life.
Don Juan was watching me. He appeared to be puzzled. I asked him if
there was something
wrong. He did not answer. He helped me to sit up. It was only then that
I realized that I had been
lying on my back, looking at the sky, and don Juan had been leaning
over my face.
My first impulse was to tell him that I had actually seen the shadows
on the ground while I
had been looking at the sky, but he put his hand over my mouth. We sat
in silence for a while. I
had no thoughts. I experienced an exquisite sense of peace, and then
quite abruptly I had an
unyielding urge to get up and go into the chaparral to look for don
Genaro.
I made an attempt to speak to don Juan; he jutted his chin and twisted
his lips as a silent
command not to talk. I tried to assess my predicament in a rational
manner; I was enjoying my
silence so much, however, that I did not want to bother with logical
considerations.
After a moment's pause, I again felt the imperious need to walk into
the bushes. I followed a
trail. Don Juan tagged along behind me as if I were the leader.
We walked for about an hour. I succeeded in remaining without any
thoughts. Then we came
to a hillside. Don Genaro was there, sitting near the top of a rock
wall. He greeted me effusively
and had to yell his words; he was about fifty feet above the ground.
Don Juan made me sit down
50
and then sat next to me.
Don Genaro explained that I had found the place where he had been
waiting because he had
guided me with a sound he had been making. As he voiced his words, I
realized that I had indeed
been hearing a peculiar sound I thought to be a buzzing in my ears; it
had seemed to be more of
an internal affair, a bodily condition, a feeling of sound so
undetermined that it was beyond the
realm of conscious assessment and interpretation.
I believed that don Genaro had a small instrument in his left hand.
From where I sat I could
not distinguish it clearly. It looked like a jew's-harp; with it he
produced a soft eerie sound which
was practically indiscernible. He kept on playing it for a moment, as
if allowing me time to fully
realize what he had just said. Then he showed me his left hand. There
was nothing in it; he was
not holding any instrument. It had appeared to me that he was playing
some instrument because
of the manner in which he had put his hand to his mouth; actually, the
sound was being produced
with his lips and the edge of his left hand, between the thumb and
index finger.
I turned to don Juan to explain to him that I had been fooled by don
Genaro's movements. He
made a quick gesture and told me not to talk and to pay close attention
to what don Genaro was
doing. I turned back to look at don Genaro, but he was no longer there.
I thought that he must
have climbed down. I waited a few moments for him to emerge from behind
the bushes. The rock
he had been standing on was a peculiar formation; it was more like a
huge ledge on the side of a
larger rock wall. I must have taken my eyes away from him for only a
couple of seconds. If he
had climbed up I would have caught sight of him before he had reached
the top of the rock wall,
and if he had climbed down he would also have been visible from where I
was sitting.
I asked don Juan about don Genaro's whereabouts. He replied that he
still was standing on the
rock ledge. As far as I could judge, there was no one there, but don
Juan maintained over and
over again that don Genaro was still standing on the rock.
He did not seem to be joking. His eyes were steady and fierce. He said
in a cutting tone that
my senses were not the proper avenue to appraise what don Genaro was
doing. He ordered me to
shut off my internal dialogue. I struggled for a moment and began to
close my eyes. Don Juan
lurched at me and shook me by the shoulders. He whispered that I had to
keep my view on the
rock ledge.
I had a sensation of drowsiness and heard don Juan's words as if they
were coming from far
away. I automatically looked at the ledge. Don Genaro was there again.
That did not interest me. I
noticed semiconsciously that it was very difficult for me to breathe,
but before I could have a
thought about it, don Genaro jumped to the ground. That act did not
catch my interest either. He
came over to me and helped me stand up, holding me by the arm; don Juan
held my other arm.
They propped me up between the two of them. Then it was only don Genaro
who was helping me
walk. He whispered something in my ear that I could not understand and
suddenly I felt that he
had pulled my body in some strange way; he grabbed me, in a manner of
speaking, by the skin of
my stomach and pulled me up to the ledge, or perhaps onto another rock.
I knew that for an
instant I was on a rock. I could have sworn that it was the rock ledge;
the image was so fleeting,
however, that I could not evaluate it in detail. Then I felt that
something in me faltered and I fell
backwards. I had a faint feeling of anguish or perhaps physical
discomfort. The next thing I knew
don Juan was talking to me. I could not understand him. I concentrated
my attention on his lips.
The sensation I had was dreamlike; I was trying to rip from the inside
an enveloping filmlike
sheet that encased me, while don Juan tried to rip it from the outside.
Finally, it actually popped
and don Juan's words became audible and their meaning crystal clear. He
was commanding me to
surface by myself. I struggled desperately to gain my sobriety; I had
no success. I quite
consciously wondered why I was having so much trouble. I fought to talk
to myself.
Don Juan seemed to be aware of my difficulty. He urged me to try
harder. Something out
51
there was preventing me from engaging myself in my familiar internal
dialogue. It was as if a
strange force were making me drowsy and indifferent.
I fought against it until I began to lose my breath. I heard don Juan
talking to me. My body
contorted involuntarily with the tension. I felt as if I were embraced
and locked in mortal combat
with something that was keeping me from breathing. I did not have fear,
but rather some
uncontrollable fury possessed me. My wrath mounted to such heights that
I growled and
screamed like an animal. Then my body was taken by a seizure; I had a
jolt that stopped me
instantly. I could again breathe normally and then I realized that don
Juan had poured his gourd
of water over my stomach and neck, soaking me.
He helped me sit up. Don Genaro was standing on the ledge. He called my
name and then
jumped to the ground. I saw him plummeting down from a height of fifty
feet or so and I
experienced an unbearable sensation around my umbilical region; I had
had the same sensation in
dreams of falling.
Don Genaro came to me and asked me, smiling, if I had liked his leap. I
tried unsuccessfully
to say something. Don Genaro called my name again.
"Carlitos! Watch me!" he said.
He swung his arms at his sides four or five times as if to get momentum
and then jumped out
of sight, or I thought he did. Or perhaps he did something else for
which I had no description. He
was five or six feet away from me and then he vanished as if he had
been sucked away by an
uncontrollable force.
I felt aloof and tired. I had a sense of indifference and did not want
to think or talk to myself.
I was not afraid, but inexplicably sad. I wanted to weep. Don Juan hit
me repeatedly with his
knuckles on the top of my head and laughed as if everything that had
happened were a joke. He
then demanded that I talk to myself because that was the time when the
internal dialogue was
desperately needed. I heard him ordering me, "Talk! Talk."
I had an involuntary spasm in the muscles of my lips. My mouth moved
without sounds. I
remembered don Genaro moving his mouth in a similar way when he was
clowning and I wished
I could have said, as he had, "My mouth doesn't want to talk." I tried
to voice the words and my
lips contorted in a painful way. Don Juan seemed to be on the verge of
collapsing with laughter.
His enjoyment was contagious and I also laughed. Finally, he helped me
to stand up. I asked him
if don Genaro was coming back. He said that don Genaro had had enough
of me for the day.
"You almost made it," don Juan said.
We had been sitting near the fire in the earth stove. He had insisted
that I eat. I was not
hungry, or tired. An unusual melancholy had overtaken me; I felt
removed from all the events of
the day. Don Juan handed me my writing pad. I made a supreme effort to
recapture my usual
state. I jotted down some comments. Little by little, I brought myself
back into my old pattern. It
was as if a veil were being lifted; suddenly I was again involved in my
familiar attitude of interest
and bewilderment.
"Good, good," don Juan said, patting my head. "I've told you that the
true art of a warrior is to
balance terror and wonder."
Don Juan's mood was unusual. He seemed almost nervous, anxious. He
appeared to be
willing to speak on his own accord. I believed that he was preparing me
for the sorcerers'
explanation and I became quite anxious myself. His eyes had a strange
glimmer that I had seen
only a few times before. After I told him what I thought of his unusual
attitude he said that he
was happy for me, that as a warrior he could rejoice in the triumphs of
his fellow men, if they
were triumphs of the spirit. He added that unfortunately I was not yet
ready for the sorcerers'
explanation, in spite of the fact that I had successfully solved don
Genaro's riddle. His contention
was that when he had poured water over my body I had actually been
dying and my whole
52
achievement had been canceled out by my incapacity to fend off the last
of don Genaro's
onslaughts.
"Genaro's power was like a tide that engulfed you," he said.
"Did don Genaro want to hurt me?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Genaro wants to help you. But power can be met only
with power. He was
testing you and you failed."
"But I solved his riddle, didn't I?"
"You did fine," he said. "So fine that Genaro had to believe that you
were capable of a
complete warrior's feat. You almost made it. What floored you this time
was not indulging,
though."
"What was it then?"
"You're too impatient and violent; instead of relaxing and going with
Genaro you began to
fight him. You can't win against him; he's stronger than you."
Don Juan then volunteered some advice and suggestions about my personal
relations with
people. His remarks were a serious sequel to what don Genaro had
jokingly said to me earlier. He
was in a talkative mood and without any coaxing on my part he began to
explain what had taken
place during the last two times I had been there.
"As you know," he said, "the crux of sorcery is the internal dialogue;
that is the key to
everything. When a warrior learns to stop it, everything becomes
possible; the most farfetched
schemes become attainable. The passageway to all the weird and eerie
experiences that you have
had recently was the fact that you could stop talking to yourself. You
have, in complete sobriety,
witnessed the ally, Genaro's double, the dreamer and the dreamed, and
today you almost learned
about the totality of yourself; that was the warrior's feat that Genaro
expected you to perform. All
this has been possible because of the amount of personal power that you
have stored. It started the
last time you were here when I caught sight of a very auspicious omen.
As you arrived I heard the
ally prowling around; first, I heard its soft steps and then I saw the
moth looking at you as you
got out of your car. The ally was motionless, watching you. That to me
was the best omen. Had
the ally been agitated, moving around as if it was displeased with your
presence, the way it
always has been, the course of the events would have been different.
Many times I have caught
sight of the ally in an unfriendly state towards you, but this time the
omen was right and I knew
that the ally had a piece of knowledge for you. That was the reason why
I said that you had an
appointment with knowledge, an appointment with a moth that had been
pending for a long time.
For reasons inconceivable to us the ally selected the form of a moth to
manifest itself to you."
"But you said that the ally was formless, and that one could only judge
its effects," I said.
"That is right," he said. "But the ally is a moth for the onlookers who
are associated with you
- Genaro and myself. For you, the ally is only an effect, a sensation
in your body, or a sound, or
the golden specks of knowledge. It remains as a fact, nonetheless, that
by choosing the form of a
moth, the ally is telling Genaro and me something of great importance.
Moths are the givers of
knowledge and the friends and helpers of sorcerers. It is because the
ally chose to be a moth
around you that Genaro places such a great emphasis on you.
"That night that you met the moth, as I had anticipated, was a true
appointment with
knowledge for you. You learned the moth's call, felt the gold dust of
its wings, but above all, that
night for the first time, you were aware that you saw and your body
learned that we are luminous
beings. You have not yet assessed correctly that monumental event in
your life. Genaro
demonstrated for you with tremendous force and clarity that we are a
feeling and that what we
call our body is a cluster of luminous fibers that have awareness.
"Last night you were back again under the good auspices of the ally. I
came to look at you as
53
you arrived and I knew that I had to call Genaro so he could explain to
you the mystery of the
dreamer and the dreamed. You believed then, just as you always have,
that I was tricking you; but
Genaro was not hiding in the bushes as you thought. He came over for
you, even if your reason
refuses to believe it."
That part of don Juan's elucidation was indeed the hardest to take at
its face value. I could not
admit it. I said that don Genaro had been real and of this world.
"Everything that you've witnessed so far has been real and of this
world," he said. "There is no
other world. Your stumbling block is a peculiar insistence on your part
and that peculiarity of
yours is not going to be cured by explanations. So today Genaro
addressed himself directly to
your body. A careful examination of what you did today will reveal to
you that your body put
things together in a most praiseworthy manner. Somehow, you refrained
from indulging in your
visions at the irrigation ditch. You kept a rare control and aloofness
as warriors should; you didn't
believe anything, but you still acted efficiently and thus you were
capable of following Genaro's
call. You actually found him without any aid from me.
"When we arrived at the rock ledge, you were imbued with power and you
saw Genaro
standing where other sorcerers have stood, for similar reasons. He
walked over to you after
jumping from the ledge. He himself was all power. Had you proceeded as
you did earlier by the
irrigation ditch, you would've seen him as he really is, a luminous
being. Instead, you got
frightened, especially when Genaro made you leap. That leap in itself
should have been sufficient
to transport you beyond your boundaries. But you didn't have the
strength and fell back into the
world of your reason. Then, of course, you entered into mortal combat
with yourself. Something
in you, your will, wanted to go with Genaro, while your reason opposed
him. Had I not helped
you, you now would be lying dead and buried in that power place. But
even with my help the
outcome was dubious for a moment."
We were silent for a few minutes. I waited for him to speak. Finally I
asked, "Did don Genaro
make me leap up to the rock ledge?"
"Don't take that leap in the sense that you understand a leap," he
said. "Once again, this is only
a way of speaking. As long as you think that you are a solid body you
cannot conceive what I am
talking about."
He then spilled some ashes on the ground by the lantern, covering an
area about two feet
square, and drew a diagram with his fingers, a diagram that had eight
points interconnected with
lines. It was a geometrical figure.
He had drawn a similar one years before when he tried to explain to me
that it was not an
illusion that I had observed the same leaf falling four times from the
same tree.
The diagram in the ashes had two epicenters; one he called "reason,"
the other, "will."
"Reason" was interconnected directly with a point he called "talking."
Through "talking,"
"reason" was indirectly connected to three other points, "feeling,"
"dreaming" and "seeing." The
other epicenter, "will," was directly connected to "feeling,"
"dreaming" and "seeing"; but only
indirectly to "reason" and "talking."
I remarked that the diagram was different from the one I had recorded
years before.
"The outer form is of no importance," he said. "These points represent
a human being and can
be drawn in any way you want."
"Do they represent the body of a human being?" I asked.
"Don't call it the body," he said. "These are eight points on the
fibers of a luminous being. A
sorcerer says, as you can see in the diagram, that a human being is,
first of all, will, because will
is directly connected to three points, feeling, dreaming and seeing;
then next, a human being is
reason. This is properly a center that is smaller than will; it is
connected only with talking."
54
"What are the other two points, don Juan?"
He looked at me and smiled.
"You're a lot stronger now than you were the first time we talked about
this diagram," he said.
"But you're not yet strong enough to know all the eight points. Genaro
will someday show you
the other two."
"Does everybody have those eight points or only sorcerers?"
"We may say that every one of us brings to the world eight points. Two
of them, reason and
talking, are known by everyone. Feeling is always vague but somehow
familiar. But only in the
world of sorcerers does one get fully acquainted with dreaming, seeing
and will. And finally, at
the outer edge of that world one encounters the other two. The eight
points make the totality of
oneself."
He showed me in the diagram that in essence all the points could be
made to connect with one
another indirectly.
I asked him again about the two mysterious remaining points. He showed
me that they were
connected only to "will" and that they were removed from "feeling,"
"dreaming" and "seeing,"
and much more distant from "talking" and "reason." He pointed with his
finger to show that they
were isolated from the rest and from each other.
"Those two points will never yield to talking or to reason" he said.
"Only will can handle
them. Reason is so removed from them that it is utterly useless to try
figuring them out. This is
one of the hardest things to realize; after all, the forte of reason is
to reason out everything."
I asked him if the eight points corresponded to areas or to certain
organs in a human being.
"They do," he replied dryly and erased the diagram.
He touched my head and said that that was the center of "reason" and
"talking". The tip of my
sternum was the center of feeling. The area below the navel was will.
Dreaming was on the right
side against the ribs. Seeing on the left. He said that sometimes in
some warriors seeing and
dreaming were on the right side.
"Where are the other two points?" I asked.
He gave me a most obscene answer and broke into a belly laugh.
"You're so sneaky," he said. "You think I'm a sleepy old goat, don't
you?"
I explained to him that my questions created their own momentum.
"Don't try to hurry," he said. "You'll know in due time and then you
will be on your own, by
yourself."
"Do you mean that I won't see you any more, don Juan?"
"Not ever again," he said. "Genaro and I will be then what we always
have been, dust on the
road."
I had a jolt in the pit of my stomach.
"What are you saying, don Juan?"
"I'm saying that we all are unfathomable beings, luminous and
boundless. You, Genaro and I
are stuck together by a purpose that is not our decision."
"What purpose are you talking about?"
"Learning the warrior's way. You can't get out of it, but neither can
we. As long as our
achievement is pending you will find me or Genaro, but once it is
accomplished, you will fly
freely and no one knows where the force of your life will take you."
"What is don Genaro doing in this?"
"That subject is not in your realm yet," he said. "Today I have to
pound the nail that Genaro
put in, the fact that we are luminous beings. We are perceivers. We are
an awareness; we are not
objects; we have no solidity. We are boundless. The world of objects
and solidity is a way of
55
making our passage on earth convenient. It is only a description that
was created to help us. We,
or rather our reason, forget that the description is only a description
and thus we entrap the
totality of ourselves in a vicious circle from which we rarely emerge
in our lifetime.
"At this moment, for instance, you are involved in extricating"
yourself from the snarls of
reason. It is preposterous and unthinkable for you that Genaro just
appeared at the edge of the
chaparral, and yet you cannot deny that you witnessed it. You perceived
it as such."
Don Juan chuckled. He carefully drew another diagram in the ashes and
covered it with his hat
before I could copy it.
"We are perceivers," he proceeded. "The world that we perceive, though,
is an illusion. It was
created by a description that was told to us since the moment we were
born.
"We, the luminous beings, are born with two rings of power, but we use
only one to create the
world. That ring, which is hooked very soon after we are born, is
reason, and its companion is
talking. Between the two they concoct and maintain the world.
"So, in essence, the world that your reason wants to sustain is the
world created by a
description and its dogmatic and inviolable rules, which the reason
learns to accept and defend.
"The secret of the luminous beings is that they have another ring of
power which is never
used, the will. The trick of the sorcerer is the same trick of the
average man. Both have a
description; one, the average man, upholds it with his reason; the
other, the sorcerer, upholds it
with his will. Both descriptions have their rules and the rules are
perceivable, but the advantage of
the sorcerer is that will is more engulfing than reason.
"The suggestion that I want to make at this point is that from now on
you should let yourself
perceive whether the description is upheld by your reason or by your
will. I feel that is the only
way for you to use your daily world as a challenge and a vehicle to
accumulate enough personal
power in order to get to the totality of yourself.
"Perhaps the next time that you come you'll have enough of it. At any
rate, wait until you feel,
like you felt today at the irrigation ditch, that an inner voice is
telling you to do so. If you come in
any other spirit it'll be a waste of time and a danger to you."
I remarked that if I had to wait for that inner voice I would never see
them again.
"You'd be surprised how well one can perform if one is against the
wall," he said.
He stood up and picked up a bundle of firewood. He placed some dry
sticks on the earth stove.
The flames cast a yellowish glow on the ground. He then turned off the
lantern and squatted in
front of his hat, which was covering the drawing he had made in the
ashes.
He commanded me to sit calmly, shut off my internal dialogue, and keep
my eyes on his hat. I
struggled for a few moments and then I felt a sensation of floating, of
falling off a cliff. It was as
if nothing were supporting me, as if I were not sitting or did not have
a body.
Don Juan lifted his hat. Underneath there were spirals of ashes. I
watched them without
thinking. I felt the spirals moving. I felt them in my stomach. The
ashes seemed to pile up. Then
they were stirred and fluffed and suddenly don Genaro was sitting in
front of me.
The sight forced me instantly into my internal dialogue. I thought that
I must have fallen
asleep. I began to breathe in short gasps and tried to open my eyes,
but my eyes were open.
I heard don Juan telling me to get up and move around. I jumped up and
ran to the ramada.
Don Juan and don Genaro ran after me. Don Juan brought his lantern. I
could not catch my
breath. I tried to calm myself as I had done before, by jogging in
place while I faced the west. I
lifted my arms and began breathing. Don Juan came to my side and said
that those movements
were done only in the twilight.
Don Genaro yelled that it was twilight for me and both of them began to
laugh. Don Genaro
ran to the edge of the bushes and then bounced back to the ramada, as
if he had been attached to a
56
giant rubber band that made him snap back. He repeated the same
movement three or four times
and then came to my side. Don Juan had been looking at me fixedly,
giggling like a child.
They exchanged a furtive glance. Don Juan said to don Genaro in a loud
voice that my reason
was dangerous, and that it could kill me if it was not placated.
"For heaven's sake!" don Genaro exclaimed in a roaring voice. "Placate
his reason!"
They jumped up and down and laughed like two children.
Don Juan made me sit down underneath the lantern and handed me my
notebook.
"Tonight we're really pulling your leg," he said in a conciliatory
tone. "Don't be afraid. Genaro
was hiding under my hat."
57
Part 2: The Tonal
and the Nagual
58
4. Having to Believe
I walked towards downtown on the Paseo de la Reforma. I was tired; the
altitude of Mexico
City no doubt had something to do with it. I could have taken a bus or
a taxi, but somehow in
spite of my fatigue I wanted to walk. It was Sunday afternoon. The
traffic was minimal and yet
the exhaust fumes of the buses and trucks with diesel engines made the
narrow streets of
downtown seem like canyons of smog.
I arrived at the Zocalo and noticed that the cathedral of Mexico City
seemed to be more
slanted than the last time I had seen it. I stepped a few feet inside
the enormous halls. A cynical
thought crossed my mind.
From there I headed for the Lagunilla market. I had no definite purpose
in mind. I walked
aimlessly but at a good pace, without looking at anything in
particular. I ended up at the stands of
old coins and secondhand books.
"Hello, hello! Look who's here!" someone said, tapping me lightly on
the shoulder.
The voice and the touch made me jump. I quickly turned to my right. My
mouth opened in
surprise. The person who had spoken to me was don Juan.
"My God, don Juan!" I exclaimed and a shiver shook my body from head to
toe. "What are
you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" he retorted as an echo.
I told him that I had stopped in the city for a couple of days before
venturing into the
mountains of central Mexico to search for him.
"Well, let's say then that I came down from the mountains to find you,"
he said, smiling.
He patted me on the shoulder several times. He seemed to be glad to see
me. He put his hands
on his hips and swelled his chest and asked me whether or not I liked
his appearance. It was only
then that I noticed he was wearing a suit. The full impact of such an
incongruity hit me. I was
dumfounded.
"How do you like my tacuche?" he asked, beaming. He used the slang word
"tacuche" instead
of the standard Spanish word "traje" for suit.
"Today I'm in a suit," he said as if he had to explain; and then,
pointing to my open mouth, he
added, "Close it! Close it!"
I laughed absentmindedly. He noticed my confusion. His body shook with
laughter as he
turned around so I could see him from every angle. His attire was
incredible. He was wearing a
light brown suit with pin stripes, brown shoes, a white shirt. And a
necktie! And that made me
wonder if he had any socks on, or was he wearing his shoes without them?
What added to my bewilderment was the maddening sensation I had had
that when don Juan
tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around I thought I had seen him
in his khaki pants and
shirt, his sandals and his straw hat, and then as he made me aware of
his attire, and as I focused
my attention on every detail of it, the complete unit of his dress
became fixed, as if I had created
it with my thoughts. My mouth seemed to be the area of my body which
was most taxed by the
surprise. It opened involuntarily. Don Juan touched me gently on my
chin, as if he were helping
me to close it.
"You certainly are developing a double chin," he said and laughed in
short spurts.
I became aware then that he did not have a hat on, and that his short
white hair was parted on
the right side. He looked like an old Mexican gentleman, an impeccably
tailored urban dweller.
I told him that to have found him there was so unnerving to me that I
had to sit down. He was
very understanding and suggested that we go to a nearby park.
We walked a few blocks in complete silence and then we arrived at the
Plaza Garibaldi, a
59
place where musicians offered their services, a sort of musicians'
employment center.
Don Juan and I merged with scores of spectators and tourists and walked
around the park.
After a while he stopped, leaned against a wall and pulled his pants up
slightly at the knees; he
was wearing light brown socks. I asked him to tell me the meaning of
his mysterious apparel. His
vague reply was that he simply had to be in a suit that day for reasons
that would be clear to me
later.
Finding Don Juan in a suit had been so unearthly that my agitation was
almost uncontrollable.
I had not seen him for several months and I wanted more than anything
else in the world to talk
with him, but somehow the setting was wrong and my attention meandered
around. Don Juan
must have noticed my anxiety and suggested that we walk to La Alameda,
a more quiet park a
few blocks away.
There were not too many people in the park and we had no trouble
finding an empty bench.
We sat down. My nervousness had given way to a feeling of uneasiness. I
did not dare to look at
don Juan.
There was a long unnerving pause; still without looking at him, I said
that the inner voice had
finally driven me to search for him, that the staggering events I had
witnessed at his house had
affected my life very deeply, and that I just had to talk about them.
He made a gesture of impatience with his hand and said that his policy
was never to dwell on
past events.
"What's important now is that you've fulfilled my suggestion," he said.
"You have taken your
daily world as a challenge, and the proof that you have stored
sufficient personal power is the
indisputable fact that you have found me with no difficulty whatever,
at the precise spot where
you were supposed to."
"I doubt very much that I could take credit for that," I said.
"I was waiting for you and then you showed up," he said. "That's all I
know; that's all any
warrior would care to know."
"What's going to happen now that I've found you?" I asked.
"For one thing," he said, "we won't discuss the dilemmas of your
reason; those experiences
belong to another time and to another mood. They are, properly
speaking, only steps of an endless
ladder; to emphasize them would mean to take away from the importance
of what's taking place
now. A warrior cannot possibly afford to do that."
I had an almost invincible desire to complain. It was not that I
resented anything that had
happened to me but I craved solace and sympathy. Don Juan appeared to
know my mood and
spoke as if I had actually voiced my thoughts.
"Only as a warrior can one withstand the path of knowledge," he said.
"A warrior cannot
complain or regret anything. His life is an endless challenge, and
challenges cannot possibly be
good or bad. Challenges are simply challenges."
His tone was dry and severe, but his smile was warm and disarming.
"Now that you are here, what we'll do is wait for an omen," he said.
"What kind of omen?" I asked.
"We need to find out whether your power can stand on its own," he said.
"The last time it
petered out miserably; this time the circumstances of your personal
life appear to have given you,
at least on the surface, all the necessaries to deal with the
sorcerers' explanation."
"Is there a chance that you might tell me about it?" I asked.
"It depends on your personal power," he said. "As is always the case in
the doings and notdoings
of warriors, personal power is the only thing that matters. So far, I
should say that you're
doing fine."
60
After a moment's silence, as if wanting to change the subject, he stood
up and pointed to his
suit."
I have put on my suit for you," he said in a mysterious tone. "This
suit is my challenge. Look
how good I look in it! How easy! Eh? Nothing to it!"
Don Juan did look extraordinarily well in a suit. All I could think of
as a gauge for
comparison was the way my grandfather used to look in his heavy English
flannel suit. He always
gave me the impression that he felt unnatural, out of place in a suit.
Don Juan, on the contrary,
was so at ease.
"Do you think it is easy for me to look natural in a suit?" don Juan
asked.
I did not know what to say. I concluded to myself, however, that
judging by his appearance
and by the way he conducted himself, it was the easiest thing in the
world for him.
"To wear a suit is a challenge for me," he said. "A challenge as
difficult as wearing sandals
and a poncho would be for you. You have never had the necessity to take
that as a challenge,
though. My case is different; I'm an Indian."
We looked at each other. He raised his brows in a silent question, as
if asking for my
comments.
"The basic difference between an ordinary man and a warrior is that a
warrior takes everything
as a challenge," he went on, "while an ordinary man takes everything
either as a blessing or as a
curse. The fact that you're here today indicates that you have tipped
the scales in favor of the
warrior's way."
His stare made me feel nervous. I tried to get up and walk, but he made
me sit down.
"You are going to sit here without fretting until we're through," he
said imperatively. "We are
waiting for an omen; we can't proceed without it, because it isn't
enough that you found me, as it
wasn't enough that you found Genaro that day in the desert. Your power
must round itself up and
give an indication."
"I can't figure out what you want," I said.
"I saw something prowling around this park," he said.
"Was it the ally?" I asked.
"No. It wasn't. So, we must sit here and find out what kind of omen
your power is rounding
up."
He then asked me to give him a detailed account of how I had carried
out the
recommendations made by don Genaro and himself about my daily world and
my relations with
people. I felt a bit embarrassed. He put me at ease with the argument
that my personal affairs
were not private, because they included a task of sorcery that he and
don Genaro were fostering in
me. I jokingly remarked that my life had been ruined because of that
task of sorcery and
recounted the difficulties in maintaining my day-to-day world.
I talked for a long time. Don Juan laughed at my account until tears
were rolling down his
cheeks. He slapped his thighs repeatedly; that gesture, which I had
seen him do hundreds of
times, was definitely out of place when it was done on the pants of a
suit. I was filled with
apprehension, which I was compelled to voice.
"Your suit scares me more than anything you've done to me," I said.
"You'll get used to it," he said. "A warrior must be fluid and must
shift harmoniously with the
world around him, whether it is the world of reason, or the world of
will.
"The most dangerous aspect of that shifting comes forth every time the
warrior finds that the
world is neither one nor the other. I was told that the only way to
succeed in that crucial shifting
was by proceeding in one's actions as if one believed. In other words,
the secret of a warrior is
that he believes without believing. But obviously a warrior cannot just
say he believes and let it
61
go at that. That would be too easy. To just believe would exonerate him
from examining his
situation. A warrior, whenever he has to involve himself with
believing, does it as a choice, as an
expression of his innermost predilection. A warrior doesn't believe, a
warrior has to believe."
He stared at me for a few seconds as I wrote in my notebook. I remained
silent. I could not
say that I understood the difference, but I did not want to argue or
ask questions. I wanted to think
about what he had said, but my mind meandered as I looked around. On
the street behind us there
was a long line of automobiles and buses, blowing their horns. At the
edge of the park, perhaps
twenty yards away, directly in line with the bench where we were
sitting, a group of about seven
people, including three policemen in light gray uniforms, stood over a
man lying motionless on
the grass. He seemed to be drunk or perhaps seriously ill.
I glanced at don Juan. He had also been looking at the man.
I told him that for some reason I was incapable of clarifying by myself
what he had just said to
me.
"I don't want to ask questions any more," I said. "But if I don't ask
you to explain I don't
understand. Not to ask questions is very abnormal for me."
"Please, be normal, by all means," he said with feigned seriousness.
I said that I did not understand the difference between believing and
having to believe. To me
both were the same. To conceive that the statements were different was
splitting hairs.
"Remember the story you once told me about your friend and her cats?"
he asked casually.
He looked up at the sky and leaned back against the bench, stretching
his legs. He put his
hands behind his head and contracted the muscles of his whole body. As
it always happens, his
bones made a loud cracking sound.
He was referring to a story I had once told him about a friend of mine
who found two kittens,
almost dead, inside a dryer in a laundromat. She revived them and
through excellent nourishment
and care groomed them into two gigantic cats, a black one and a reddish
one.
Two years later she sold her house. Since she could not take the cats
with her and was unable
to find another home for them, all she could do under the circumstances
was to take them to an
animal hospital and have them put to sleep.
I helped her take them. The cats had never been inside a car; she tried
to calm them down.
They scratched and bit her, especially the reddish cat, the one she
called Max. When we finally
arrived at the animal hospital, she took the black cat first; holding
it in her arms, and without
saying a word she got out of the car. The cat played with her; pawing
her gently as she pushed
open the glass door to enter the hospital.
I glanced at Max; he was sitting in the back.. The movement of my head
must have scared
him, for he dove under the driver's seat. I made the seat slide
backwards. I did not want to reach
under it for fear that he would bite or scratch my hand. The cat was
lying inside a depression on
the floor of the car. He seemed very agitated; his breathing was
accelerated. He looked at me; our
eyes met and an overwhelming sensation possessed me. Something took
hold of my body, a form
of apprehension, despair, or perhaps embarrassment for being part of
what was taking place.
I felt a need to explain to Max that it was my friend's decision, and
that I was only helping her.
The cat kept on looking at me as if he understood my words.
I looked to see if she was coming. I could see her through the glass
door. She was talking to
the receptionist. My body felt a strange jolt and automatically I
opened the door of my car.
"Run, Max, run!" I said to the cat.
He jumped out of the car, dashed across the street with his body close
to the ground, like a true
feline. The opposite side of the street was empty; there were no cars
parked and I could see Max
running down the street alone the gutter. He reached the corner of a
big boulevard and then dove
62
through the storm drain into the sewer.
My friend came back. I told her that Max had left. She got into the car
and we drove away
without saying a single word.
In the months that followed, the incident became a symbol to me. I
fancied or perhaps I saw a
weird flicker in Max's eyes when he looked at me before jumping out of
the car. And I believed
that for an instant that castrated, overweight, and useless pet became
a cat.
I told don Juan that I was convinced that when Max had run across the
street and plunged into
the sewer his "cat spirit" was impeccable, and that perhaps at no other
time in his life was his
"catness" so evident. The impression that the incident left on me was
unforgettable.
I told the story to all of my friends; after telling it and retelling
it, my identification with the
cat became quite pleasurable.
I thought myself to be like Max, overindulgent, domesticated in many
ways, and yet I could
not help thinking that there was always the possibility of one moment
in which the spirit of man
might take over my whole being, just like the spirit of "catness" took
over Max's bloated and
useless body.
Don Juan had liked the story and had made some casual comments about
it. He had said that it
was not so difficult to let the spirit of man flow and take over; to
sustain it, however, was
something that only a warrior could do.
"What about the story of the cats?" I asked.
"You told me you believed that you're taking your chances, like Max,"
he said.
"I do believe that."
"What I've been trying to tell you is that as a warrior you cannot just
believe this and let it go
at that. With Max, having to believe means that you accept the fact
that his escape might have
been a useless outburst. He might have jumped into the sewer and died
instantly. He might have
drowned or starved to death, or he might have been eaten by rats. A
warrior considers all those
possibilities and then chooses to believe in accordance with his
innermost predilection.
"As a warrior you have to believe that Max made it, that he not only
escaped but that he
sustained his power. You have to believe it. Let's say that without
that belief you have nothing."
The distinction became very clear. I thought I really had chosen to
believe that Max had
survived, knowing that he was handicapped by a lifetime of soft and
pampered living.
"Believing is a cinch," don Juan went on. "Having to believe is
something else. In this case,
for instance, power gave you a splendid lesson, but you chose to use
only part of it. If you have to
believe, however, you must use all the event."
"I see what you mean," I said.
My mind was in a state of clarity and I thought I was grasping his
concepts with no effort at
all.
"I'm afraid you still don't understand," he said, almost whispering.
He stared at me. I held his look for a moment.
"What about the other cat?" he asked.
"Uh? The other cat?" I repeated involuntarily.
I had forgotten about it. My symbol had rotated around Max. The other
cat was of no
consequence to me.
"But he is!" don Juan exclaimed when I voiced my thoughts. ''Having to
believe means that
you have to also account for the other cat. The one that went playfully
licking the hands that were
carrying him to his doom. That was the cat that went to his death
trustingly, filled with his cat's
judgments.
63
"You think you're like Max, therefore you have forgotten about the
other cat. You don't even
know his name. Having to believe means that you must consider
everything, and before deciding
that you are like Max you must consider that you may be like the other
cat; instead of running for
your life and taking your chances, you may be going to your doom
happily, filled with your
judgments."
There was an intriguing sadness in his words, or perhaps the sadness
was mine. We remained
quiet for a long time. Never had it crossed my mind that I might be
like the other cat. The thought
was very distressing to me.
A mild commotion and the muffled sound of voices suddenly forced me out
of my mental
deliberations. Policemen were dispersing some people gathered around
the man lying on the
grass. Someone had propped the man's head on a rolled up jacket. The
man was lying parallel to
the street. He was facing east. From where I sat I could almost tell
that his eyes were open.
Don Juan sighed.
"What a magnificent afternoon," he said, looking at the sky.
"I don't like Mexico City," I said.
"Why not?"
"I hate the smog."
He shook his head rhythmically is if he were agreeing with me.
"I would rather be with you in the desert, or in the mountains," I said.
"If I were you I would never say that," he said.
"I didn't mean anything wrong, don Juan."
"We both know that. It is not what you mean that matters, though. A
warrior, or any man for
that matter, cannot possibly wish he were somewhere else; a warrior
because he lives by
challenge, an ordinary man because he doesn't know where his death is
going to find him.
"Look at that man over there lying on the grass. What do you think is
wrong with him?"
"He's either drunk or ill," I said.
"He's dying!" don Juan said with ultimate conviction. "When we sat down
here I caught a
glimpse of his death as it circled around him. That's why I told you
not to get up; rain or shine,
you can't get up from this bench until the end. This is the omen we
have been waiting for. It is
late afternoon. Right now the sun is about to set. It is your hour of
power. Look! The view of that
man is only for us."
He pointed out that from where we sat we had an unobstructed view of
the man. A group of
curious bystanders were gathered in a half circle on the other side of
him, opposite us.
The sight of the man lying on the grass became very disturbing to me.
He was lean and dark,
still young. His black hair was short and curly. His shirt was
unbuttoned and his chest was
uncovered. He was wearing an orange cardigan sweater with holes in the
elbows, and some old
beat up gray slacks. His shoes, of some undefined faded color, were
untied. He was rigid. I could
not tell whether or not he was breathing. I wondered if he were dying,
as don Juan had said. Or
was don Juan simply using the event to make a point? My past
experiences with him gave me the
certainty that somehow he was making everything fit into some
mysterious scheme of his.
After a long silence I turned to him. His eyes were closed. He began to
talk without opening
them.
"That man is about to die now," he said. "You don't believe it, though,
do you?"
He opened his eyes and stared at me for a second. His look was so
penetrating that it stunned
me.
"No. I don't believe it," I said.
I really felt that the whole thing was too easy. We had come to sit in
the park and right there,
64
as if everything were being staged, was a man dying.
"The world adjusts itself to itself," don Juan said after listening to
my doubts. "This is not a
setup. This is an omen, an act of power.
"The world upheld by reason makes all this into an event that we can
watch for a moment on
our way to more important things. All we can say about it is that a man
is lying on the grass in the
park, perhaps drunk.
"The world upheld by will makes it into an act of power, which we can
see. We can see death
whirling around the man, setting its hooks deeper and deeper into his
luminous fibers. We can see
the luminous strings losing their tautness and vanishing one by one.
"Those are the two possibilities opened to us luminous beings. You are
somewhere in the
middle, still wanting to have everything under the rubric of reason.
And yet, how can you discard
the fact that your personal power rounded up an omen? We came to this
park, after you had found
me where I had been waiting for you - you found me by just walking into
me, without thinking,
or planning, or deliberately using your reason - and after we sat down
here to wait for an omen,
we became aware of that man, each of us noticed him in our own way, you
with your reason, I
with my will.
"That dying man is one of the cubic centimeters of chance that power
always makes available
to a warrior. The warrior's art is to be perennially fluid in order to
pluck it. I have plucked it, but
have you?"
I could not answer. I became aware of an immense chasm within myself
and for a moment I
was somehow cognizant of the two worlds he was talking about.
"What an exquisite omen this is!" he went on. "And all for you. Power
is showing you that
death is the indispensable ingredient in having to believe. Without the
awareness of death
everything is ordinary, trivial. It is only because death is stalking
us that the world is an
unfathomable mystery. Power has shown you that. All I have done myself
is to round up the
details of the omen, so the direction would be clear to you; but in
rounding up the details, I have
also shown you that everything I have said to you today is what I have
to believe myself, because
that is the predilection of my spirit."
We looked each other in the eye for a moment.
"I remember a poem that you used to read to me," he said, moving his
eyes to the side. "About
a man who vowed to die in Paris. How does it go?"
The poem was Cesar Vallejo's "Black Stone on a White Stone." I had read
and recited the first
two stanzas to don Juan countless times at his request.
I will die in Paris while it rains,
on a day which I already remember.
I will die in Paris - and I do not run away -
perhaps in the Autumn, on a Thursday, as it is today.
It will be a Thursday, because today,
the Thursday that I write these lines,
my bones feel the turn,
and never so much as today, in all my road,
have I seen myself alone.
The poem summed up an indescribable melancholy for me.
Don Juan whispered that he had to believe that the dying man had had
enough personal power to enable him to choose the streets of Mexico
City as the
place of his death.
65
"We're back again to the story of the two cats," he said. "We have to
believe
that Max became aware of what was stalking him and, like that man over
there,
had enough power at least to choose the place of his end. But then
there was the
other cat, just like there are other men whose death will encircle them
while they
are alone, unaware, staring at the walls and ceiling of an ugly barren
room.
"That man, on the other hand, is dying where he has always lived, in the
streets. Three policemen are his guards of honor. And as he fades away
his eyes
will catch a last glimpse of the lights in the stores across the street
- the cars, the
trees, the throngs of people milling around - and his ears will be
flooded for the
last time with the sounds of traffic and the voices of men and women as
they
walk by.
"So you see, without an awareness of the presence of our death there is
no
power, no mystery."
I stared at the man for a long time. He was motionless. Perhaps he was
dead.
But my disbelief did not matter any longer. Don Juan was right. Having
to
believe that the world is mysterious and unfathomable was the
expression of a
warrior's innermost predilection. Without it he had nothing.
66
5. The Island of The Tonal
Don Juan and I met again the next day at the same park around noon. He
was still wearing his
brown suit. We sat on a bench; he took off his coat, folded it very
carefully, but with an air of
supreme casualness, and laid it on the bench. His casualness was very
studied and yet it was
completely natural. I caught myself staring at him. He seemed to be
aware of the paradox he was
presenting to me and smiled. He straightened his necktie. He had on a
beige long-sleeved shirt. It
fitted him very well.
"I still have on my suit because I want to tell you something of great
importance," he said,
patting me on the shoulder. "You had a good performance yesterday. Now
it is time to come to
some final agreements."
He paused for a long-moment. He seemed to be preparing a statement. I
had a strange feeling
in my stomach. My immediate assumption was that he was going to tell me
the sorcerers'
explanation. He stood up a couple of times and paced back and forth in
front of me, as if it were
difficult to voice what he had in mind.
"Let's go to the restaurant across the street and have a bite to eat,"
he finally said.
He unfolded his coat, and before he put it on he showed me that it was
fully lined.
"It is made to order," he said and smiled as if he were proud of it, as
if it mattered.
"I have to call your attention to it, or you wouldn't notice it, and it
is very important that you
are aware of it. You are aware of everything only when you think you
should be; the condition of
a warrior, however, is to be aware of everything at all times.
"My suit and all this paraphernalia is important because it represents
my condition in life. Or
rather, the condition of one of the two parts of my totality. This
discussion has been pending. I
feel that now is the time to have it. It has to be done properly,
though, or it will never make sense.
I wanted my suit to give you the first clue. I think it has. Now is the
time to talk, for in matters of
this topic there is no complete understanding without talking."
"What is the topic, don Juan?"
"The totality of oneself," he said.
He stood up abruptly and led me to a restaurant in a large hotel across
the street. A hostess
with a rather unfriendly disposition gave us a table inside in a back
corner. Obviously the choice
places were around the windows.
I told don Juan that the woman reminded me of another hostess in a
restaurant in Arizona
where don Juan and I had once gone to eat, who had asked us, before she
handed out the menu, if
we had enough money to pay.
"I don't blame this poor woman either," don Juan said, as if
sympathizing with her. "She too,
like the other one, is afraid of Mexicans."
He laughed softly. A couple of people at the adjacent tables turned
their heads around and
looked at us.
Don Juan said that without knowing, or perhaps even in spite of
herself, the hostess had given
us the best table in the house, a table where we could talk and I could
write to my heart's content.
I had just taken my writing pad out of my pocket and put it on the
table when the waiter
suddenly loomed over us. He also seemed to be in a bad mood. He stood
over us with a
challenging air.
Don Juan proceeded to order a very elaborate meal for himself. He
ordered without looking at
the menu, as if he knew it by heart. I was at a loss; the waiter had
appeared unexpectedly and I
had not had time to read the menu, so I told him that I would have the
same.
Don Juan whispered in my ear, "I bet you that they don't have what I've
ordered."
67
He stretched his arms and legs and told me to relax and sit comfortably
because the meal was
going to take forever to be prepared.
"You are at a very poignant crossroad," he said. "Perhaps the last one,
and also perhaps the
most difficult one to understand. Some of the things I am going to
point out to you today will
probably never be clear. They are not supposed to be clear anyway. So
don't be embarrassed or
discouraged. All of us are dumb creatures when we join the world of
sorcery, and to join it
doesn't in any sense insure us that we will change. Some of us remain
dumb until the very end."
I liked it when he included himself among the idiots. I knew that he
did not do it out of
kindness, but as a didactic device.
"Don't fret if you don't make sense out of what I'm going to tell you,"
he continued.
"Considering your temperament, I'm afraid that you might knock yourself
out trying to
understand. Don't! What I'm about to say is meant only to point out a
direction."
I had a sudden feeling of apprehension. Don Juan's admonitions forced
me into an endless
speculation. He had warned me on other occasions, in very much the same
fashion, and every
time he had done so, what he was warning me about had turned out to be
a devastating issue.
"It makes me very nervous when you talk to me this way," I said.
"I know it," he replied calmly. "I'm deliberately trying to get you on
your toes. I need your
attention, your undivided attention."
He paused and looked at me, I laughed nervously and involuntarily. I
knew that he was
stretching the dramatic possibilities of the situation as far as he
could.
"I'm not telling you all this for effect," he said, as if he had read
my thoughts. "I am simply
giving you time to make the proper adjustments."
At that moment the waiter stopped at our table to announce that they
did not have what we had
ordered. Don Juan laughed out loud and ordered tortillas and beans. The
waiter chuckled
scornfully and said that they did not serve them and suggested steak or
chicken. We settled for
some soup.
We ate in silence. I did not like the soup and could not finish it, but
don Juan ate all of his.
"I have put on my suit," he said all of a sudden, "in order to tell you
about something,
something you already know but which needs to be clarified if it is
going to be effective. I have
waited until now, because Genaro feels that you have to be not only
willing to undertake the road
of knowledge, but your efforts by themselves must be impeccable enough
to make you worthy of
that knowledge. You have done well. Now I will tell you the sorcerers'
explanation."
He paused again, rubbed his cheeks and played with his tongue inside
his mouth, as if he
were feeling his teeth.
"I'm going to tell you about the tonal and the nagual" he said and
looked at me piercingly.
This was the first time in our association that he had used those two
terms. I was vaguely
familiar with them through the anthropological literature on the
cultures of central Mexico. I
knew that the "tonal" (pronounced, toh-na'hl) was thought to be a kind
of guardian spirit, usually
an animal, that a child obtained at birth and with which he had
intimate ties for the rest of his life.
"Nagual" (pronounced, nah-wa'hl) was the name given to the animal into
which sorcerers could
allegedly transform themselves, or to the sorcerer that elicited such a
transformation.
"This is my tonal" don Juan said, rubbing his hands on his chest.
"Your suit?"
"No. My person."
He pounded his chest and his thighs and the side of his ribs.
"My tonal is all this."
He explained that every human being had two sides, two separate
entities, two counterparts
68
which became operative at the moment of birth; one was called the
"tonal" and the other the
"nagual."
I told him what anthropologists knew about the two concepts. He let me
speak without
interrupting me.
"Well, whatever you may think you know about them is pure nonsense," he
said. "I base this
statement on the fact that whatever I'm telling you about the tonal and
the nagual could not
possibly have been told to you before. Any idiot would know that you
know nothing about them,
because in order to be acquainted with them, you would have to be a
sorcerer and you aren't. Or
you would've had to talk about them with a sorcerer and you haven't. So
disregard everything
you've heard before, because it is inapplicable."
"It was only a comment," I said.
He raised his brows in a comical gesture.
"Your comments are out of order," he said. "This time I need your
undivided attention, since I
am going to acquaint you with the tonal and the nagual. Sorcerers have
a special and unique
interest in that knowledge. I would say that the tonal and the nagual
are in the exclusive realm of
men of knowledge. In your case, this is the lid that closes everything
I have taught you. Thus, I
have waited until now to talk about them.
"The tonal is not an animal that guards a person. I would rather say
that it is a guardian that
could be represented as an animal. But that is not the important point."
He smiled and winked at me.
"I'm using your own words now," he said. "The tonal is the social
person."
He laughed, I supposed, at the sight of my bewilderment.
"The tonal is, rightfully so, a protector, a guardian - a guardian that
most of the time turns into
a guard."
I fumbled with my notebook. I was trying to pay attention to what he
was saying. He laughed
and mimicked my nervous movements.
"The tonal is the organizer of the world," he proceeded. "Perhaps the
best way of describing
its monumental work is to say that on its shoulders rests the task of
setting the chaos of the world
in order. It is not farfetched to maintain, as sorcerers do, that
everything we know and do as men
is the work of the tonal.
"At this moment, for instance, what is engaged in trying to make sense
out of our conversation
is your tonal; without it there would be only weird sounds and grimaces
and you wouldn't
understand a thing of what I'm saying.
"I would say then that the tonal is a guardian that protects something
priceless, our very being.
Therefore, an inherent quality of the tonal is to be cagey and jealous
of its doings. And since its
doings are by far the most important part of our lives, it is no wonder
that it eventually changes,
in every one of us, from a guardian into a guard."
He stopped and asked me if I had understood. I automatically nodded my
head affirmatively
and he smiled with an air of incredulity.
"A guardian is broad-minded and understanding," he explained. "A guard,
on the other hand,
is a vigilante, narrow-minded and most of the time despotic. I say,
then, that the tonal in all of us
has been made into a petty and despotic guard when it should be a
broad-minded guardian."
I definitely was not following the trend of his explanation. I heard
and wrote down every word
and yet I seemed to be stuck with some internal dialogue of my own.
"It is very hard for me to follow your point," I said.
"If you didn't get hooked on talking to yourself you would have no
quarrels," he said cuttingly.
His remark threw me into a long explanatory statement. I finally caught
myself and apologized
69
for my insistence on defending myself.
He smiled and made a gesture that seemed to indicate that my attitude
had not really annoyed
him.
"The tonal is everything we are," he proceeded. "Name it! Anything we
have a word for is the
tonal. And since the tonal is its own doings, then everything,
obviously, has to fall under its
domain."
I reminded him that he had said that the tonal was the social person, a
term which I myself had
used with him to mean a human being as the end result of socialization
processes. I pointed out
that if the tonal was that product, it could not be everything, as he
had said, because the world
around us was not the product of socialization.
Don Juan reminded me that my argument had no basis for him, and that,
long before, he had
already made the point that there was no world at large but only a
description of the world which
we had learned to visualize and take for granted.
"The tonal is everything we know," he said. "I think this in itself is
enough reason for the
tonal to be such an overpowering affair."
He paused for a moment. He seemed to be definitely waiting for comments
or questions, but I
had none. Yet I felt obligated to voice a question and struggled to
formulate an appropriate one. I
failed. I felt that the admonitions with which he had opened our
conversation had perhaps served
as a deterrent to any inquiry on my part. I felt strangely numb. I
could not concentrate and order
my thoughts. In fact I felt and knew, without the shadow of a doubt,
that I was incapable of
thinking and yet I knew this without thinking, if that were at all
possible.
I looked at don Juan. He was staring at the middle part of my body. He
lifted his eyes and my
clarity of mind returned instantly.
"The tonal is everything we know," he repeated slowly. "And that
includes not only us, as
persons, but everything in our world. It can be said that the tonal is
everything that meets the eye.
"We begin to groom it at the moment of birth. The moment we take the
first gasp of air we
also breathe in power for the tonal. So, it is proper to say that the
tonal of a human being is
intimately tied to his birth.
"You must remember this point. It is of great importance in
understanding all this. The tonal
begins at birth and ends at death."
I wanted to recapitulate all the points that he had made. I went as far
as opening my mouth to
ask him to repeat the salient points of our conversation, but to my
amazement I could not vocalize
my words. I was experiencing a most curious incapacity, my words were
heavy and I had no
control over that sensation.
I looked at don Juan to signal him that I could not talk. He was again
staring at the area
around my stomach.
He lifted his eyes and asked me how I felt. Words poured out of me as
if I had been
unplugged. I told him that I had been having the peculiar sensation of
not being able to talk or
think and yet my thoughts had been crystal clear.
"Your thoughts have been crystal clear?" he asked.
I realized then that the clarity had not pertained to my thoughts, but
to my perception of the
world.
"Are you doing something to me, don Juan?" I asked.
"I am trying to convince you that your comments are not necessary," he
said and laughed.
"You mean you don't want me to ask questions?"
"No, no. Ask anything you want, but don't let your attention waver."
I had to admit that I had been distracted by the immensity of the topic.
70
"I still cannot understand, don Juan, what you mean by the statement
that the tonal is
everything," I said after a moment's pause.
"The tonal is what makes the world."
"Is the tonal the creator of the world?"
Don Juan scratched his temples.
"The tonal makes the world only in a manner of speaking. It can not
create or change
anything, and yet it makes the world because its function is to judge,
and assess, and witness. I
say that the tonal makes the world because it witnesses and assesses it
according to tonal rules. In
a very strange manner the tonal is a creator that doesn't create a
thing. In other words, the tonal
makes up the rules by which it apprehends the world. So, in a manner of
speaking, it creates the
world."
He hummed a popular tune, beating the rhythm with his fingers on the
side of his chair. His
eyes were shining; they seemed to sparkle. He chuckled, shaking his
head.
"You're not following me," he said, smiling.
"I am. I have no problems," I said, but I did not sound very convincing.
"The tonal is an island," he explained. "The best way of describing it
is to say that the tonal is
this."
He ran his hand over the table top.
"We can say that the tonal is like the top of this table. An island.
And on this island we have
everything. This island is, in fact, the world.
"There is a personal tonal for every one of us, and there is a
collective one for all of us at any
given time, which we can call the tonal of the times."
He pointed to the rows of tables in the restaurant.
"Look! Every table has the same configuration. Certain items are
present on all of them. They
are, however, individually different from each other; some tables are
more crowded than others;
they have different food on them, different plates, different
atmosphere, yet we have to admit that
all the tables in this restaurant are very alike. The same thing
happens with the tonal. We can say
that the tonal of the times is what makes us alike, in the same way it
makes all the tables in this
restaurant alike. Each table separately, nevertheless, is an individual
case, just like the personal
tonal of each of us. But the important factor to keep in mind is that
everything we know about
ourselves and about our world is on the island of the tonal. See what I
mean?"
"If the tonal is everything we know about ourselves and our world,
what, then, is the nagual?"
"The nagual is the part of us which we do not deal with at all."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The nagual is the part of us for which there is no description - no
words, no names, no
feelings, no knowledge."
"That's a contradiction, don Juan. In my opinion if it can't be felt or
described or named, it
cannot exist."
"It's a contradiction only in your opinion. I warned you before, don't
knock yourself out trying
to understand this."
"Would you say that the nagual is the mind?"
"No. The mind is an item on the table. The mind is part of the tonal.
Let's say that the mind is
the chili sauce."
He took a bottle of sauce and placed it in front of me.
"Is the nagual the soul?"
"No. The soul is also on the table. Let's say that the soul is the
ashtray."
"Is it the thoughts of men?"
71
"No. Thoughts are also on the table. Thoughts are like the silverware."
He picked up a fork and placed it next to the chili sauce and the
ashtray.
"Is it a state of grace? Heaven?"
"Not that either. That, whatever it might be, is also part of the
tonal. It is, let's say, the
napkin."
I went on giving possible ways of describing what he was alluding to:
pure intellect, psyche,
energy, vital force, immortality, life principle. For each thing I
named he found an item on the
table to serve as a counterpart and shoved it in front of me, until he
had all the objects on the table
stashed in one pile.
Don Juan seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He giggled and rubbed
his hands every
time I named another possibility.
"Is the nagual the Supreme Being, the Almighty, God?" I asked.
"No. God is also on the table. Let's say that God is the tablecloth."
He made a joking gesture of pulling the tablecloth in order to stack it
up with the rest of the
items he had put in front of me.
"But, are you saying that God does not exist?"
"No. I didn't say that. All I said was that the nagual was not God,
because God is an item of
our personal tonal and of the tonal of the times. The tonal is, as I've
already said, everything we
think the world is composed of, including God, of course. God has no
more importance other than
being a part of the tonal of our time."
"In my understanding, don Juan, God is everything. Aren't we talking
about the same thing?"
"No. God is only everything you can think of, therefore, properly
speaking, he is only another
item on the island. God cannot be witnessed at will, he can only be
talked about. The nagual, on
the other hand, is at the service of the warrior. It can be witnessed,
but it cannot be talked about."
"If the nagual is not any of the things I have mentioned," I said,
"perhaps you can tell me
about its location. Where is it?"
Don Juan made a sweeping gesture and pointed to the area beyond the
boundaries of the table.
He swept his hand, as if with the back of it he were cleaning an
imaginary surface that went
beyond the edges of the table.
"The nagual is there," he said. "There, surrounding the island. The
nagual is there, where
power hovers.
"We sense, from the moment we are born, that there are two parts to us.
At the time of birth,
and for a while after, we are all nagual. We sense, then, that in order
to function we need a
counterpart to what we have. The tonal is missing and that gives us,
from the very beginning, a
feeling of incompleteness. Then the tonal starts to develop and it
becomes utterly important to
our functioning, so important that it opaques the shine of the nagual,
it overwhelms it. From the
moment we become all tonal we do nothing else but to increment that old
feeling of
incompleteness which accompanies us from the moment of our birth, and
which tells us
constantly that there is another part to give us completeness.
"From the moment we become all tonal we begin making pairs. We sense
our two sides, but
we always represent them with items of the tonal. We say that the two
parts of us are the soul and
the body. Or mind and matter. Or good and evil. God and Satan. We never
realize, however, that
we are merely pairing things on the island, very much like pairing
coffee and tea, or bread and
tortillas, or chili and mustard. I tell you, we are weird animals. We
get carried away and in our
madness we believe ourselves to be making perfect sense."
Don Juan stood up and addressed me as if he were an orator. He pointed
his index finger at me
and made his head shiver.
72
"Man doesn't move between good and evil," he said in a hilariously
rhetorical tone, grabbing
the salt and pepper shakers in both hands. "His true movement is
between negativeness and
positiveness."
He dropped the salt and pepper and clutched a knife and fork.
"You're wrong! There is no movement," he continued as if he were
answering himself. "Man
is only mind!"
He took the bottle of sauce and held it up. Then he put it down.
"As you can see," he said softly, "we can easily replace chili sauce
for mind and end up
saying, 'Man is only chili sauce!' Doing that won't make us more
demented than we already are."
"I'm afraid I haven't asked the right question," I said. "Maybe we
could arrive at a better
understanding if I asked what one can specifically find in that area
beyond the island?"
"There is no way of answering that. If I would say, Nothing, I would
only make the nagual
part of the tonal. All I can say is that there, beyond the island, one
finds the nagual"
"But, when you call it the nagual, aren't you also placing it on the
island?"
"No. I named it only because I wanted to make you aware of it."
"All right! But becoming aware of it is the step that has turned the
nagual into a new item of
my tonal"
"I'm afraid you do not understand. I have named the tonal and the
nagual as a true pair. That
is all I have done."
He reminded me that once, while trying to explain to him my insistence
on meaning, I had
discussed the idea that children might not be capable of comprehending
the difference between
"father" and "mother" until they were quite developed in terms of
handling meaning, and that
they would perhaps believe that it might be that "father" wears pants
and "mother" skirts, or other
differences dealing with hairstyle, or size of body, or items of
clothing.
"We certainly do the same thing with the two parts of us," he said. "We
sense that there is
another side to us. But when we try to pin down that other side the
tonal gets hold of the baton,
and as a director it is quite petty and jealous. It dazzles us with its
cunningness and forces us to
obliterate the slightest inkling of the other part of the true pair,
the nagual"
As we left the restaurant I told don Juan that he had been correct in
warning me about the
difficulty of the topic, and that my intellectual prowess was
inadequate to grasp his concepts and
explanations. I suggested that perhaps if I should go to my hotel and
read my notes, my
comprehension of the subject might improve. He tried to put me at ease;
he said that I was
worrying about words. While he was speaking I experienced a shiver, and
for an instant I sensed
that there was indeed another area within me.
I mentioned to don Juan that I was having some inexplicable feelings.
My statement
apparently aroused his curiosity. I told him that I had had the same
feelings before, and that they
seemed to be momentary lapses, interruptions in my flow of awareness.
They always manifested
themselves as a jolt in my body followed by the sensation that I was
suspended in something.
We headed for downtown, walking leisurely. Don Juan asked me to relate
all the details of
my lapses, I had a hard time describing them, beyond the point of
calling them moments of
forgetfulness, or absent-mindedness, or not watching what I was doing.
He patiently rebuffed me. He pointed out that I was a demanding person,
had an excellent
memory, and was very careful in my actions. It had occurred to me at
first that those peculiar
lapses were associated with stopping the internal dialogue, but I also
had had them when I had
talked to myself extensively. They seemed to stem from an area
independent of everything I
knew.
Don Juan patted me on the back. He smiled with apparent delight.
73
"You're finally beginning to make real connections," he said.
I asked him to explain his cryptic statement, but he abruptly stopped
our conversation and
signaled me to follow him to a small park in front of a church.
"This is the end of our journey to downtown," he said and sat down on a
bench. "Right here
we have an ideal spot to watch people. There are some who walk by on
the street and others who
come to church. From here we can see everyone."
He pointed to a wide business street and to the gravel walk leading to
the steps of the church.
Our bench was located midway between the church and the street.
"This is my very favorite bench," he said, caressing the wood.
He winked at me and added with a grin, "It likes me. That's why no one
was sitting on it. It
knew I was coming."
"The bench knew that?"
"No! Not the bench. My nagual."
"Does the nagual have consciousness? Is it aware of things?"
"Of course. It is aware of everything. That's why I'm interested in
your account. What you call
lapses and feelings is the nagual. In order to talk about it we must
borrow from the island of the
tonal, therefore it is more convenient not to explain it but to simply
recount its effects."
I wanted to say something else about those peculiar feelings, but he
hushed me.
"No more. Today is not the day of the nagual, today is the day of the
tonal" he said. "I put on
my suit because today I am all tonal."
He stared at me. I was about to tell him that the subject was proving
to be more difficult than
anything he had ever explained to me; he seemed to have anticipated my
words.
"It is difficult," he continued. "I know it. But considering that this
is the final lid, the last stage
of what I've been teaching you, it is not too farfetched to say that it
envelops everything I
mentioned since the first day we met."
We remained quiet for a long while. I felt that I had to wait for him
to resume his explanation,
but I had a sudden attack of apprehension and hurriedly asked, "Are the
nagual and the tonal
within ourselves?"
He looked at me piercingly.
"Very difficult question," he said. "You yourself would say that they
are within ourselves. I
myself would say that they are not, but neither of us would be right.
The tonal of your time calls
for you to maintain that everything dealing with your feelings and
thoughts takes place within
yourself. The sorcerers' tonal says the opposite, everything is
outside. Who's right? No one.
Inside, outside, it doesn't really matter."
I raised a point. I said that when he talked about the tonal and the
nagual it sounded as if
there was still a third part. He had said that the tonal "forces us" to
perform acts. I asked him to
tell me who he was referring to as being forced.
He did not answer me directly.
"To explain all this is not that simple," he said. "No matter how
clever the checkpoints of the
tonal are the fact of the matter is that the nagual surfaces. Its
coming to the surface is always
inadvertent, though. The tonal's great art is to suppress any
manifestation of the nagual in such a
manner that even if its presence should be the most obvious thing in
the world, it is unnoticeable."
"For whom is it unnoticeable?"
He chuckled, shaking his head up and down. I pressed him for an answer.
"For the tonal" he said. "I'm speaking about it exclusively. I may go
around in circles but that
shouldn't surprise or annoy you. I warned you about the difficulty of
understanding what I have to
tell. I went through all that rigamarole because my tonal is aware that
it is speaking about itself.
74
In other words, my tonal is using itself in order to understand the
information I want your tonal to
be clear about. Let's say that the tonal, since it is keenly aware of
how taxing it is to speak of
itself, has created the terms 'I,' 'myself,' and so forth as a balance
and thanks to them it can talk
with other tonals, or with itself, about itself.
"Now when I say that the tonal forces us to do something, I don't mean
that there is a third
party there. Obviously it forces itself to follow its own judgments.
"On certain occasions, however, or under certain special circumstances,
something in the
tonal itself becomes aware that there is more to us. It is like a voice
that comes from the depths,
the voice of the nagual. You see, the totality of ourselves is a
natural condition which the tonal
cannot obliterate altogether, and there are moments, especially in the
life of a warrior, when the
totality becomes apparent. At those moments one can surmise and assess
what we really are.
"I was concerned with those jolts you have had, because that is the way
the nagual surfaces.
At those moments the tonal becomes aware of the totality of oneself. It
is always a jolt because
that awareness disrupts the lull. I call that awareness the totality of
the being that is going to die.
The idea is that at the moment of death the other member of the true
pair, the nagual, becomes
fully operative and the awareness and memories and perceptions stored
in our calves and thighs,
in our back and shoulders and neck, begin to expand and disintegrate.
Like the beads of an
endless broken necklace, they fall asunder without the binding force of
life."
He looked at me. His eyes were peaceful. I felt ill at ease, stupid.
"The totality of ourselves is a very tacky affair," he said. "We need
only a very small portion
of it to fulfill the most complex tasks of life. Yet when we die, we
die with the totality of
ourselves. A sorcerer asks the question, 'If we're going to die with
the totality of ourselves, why
not, then, live with that totality?' "
He signaled me with his head to watch the scores of people that went by.
"They're all tonal" he said. "I am going to single some of them out so
your tonal will assess
them, and in assessing them it will assess itself."
He directed my attention to two old ladies that had emerged from the
church. They stood at
the top of the limestone steps for a moment and then began to walk down
with infinite care,
resting on every step.
"Watch those two women very carefully," he said. "But don't see them as
persons, or as faces
that hold things in common with us; see them as tonals"
The two women got to the bottom of the steps. They moved as if the
rough gravel were
marbles and they were about to roll and lose their balance on them.
They walked arm in arm,
propping each other up with the weight of their bodies.
"Look at them!" don Juan said in a low voice. "Those women are the best
example of the most
miserable tonal one can find."
I noticed that the two women were small-boned but fat. They were
perhaps in their early
fifties. They had a painful look in their faces, as if walking down the
church steps had been
beyond their strength.
They were in front of us; they vacillated for a moment and then they
came to a halt. There was
one more step on the gravel walk.
"Watch your step, ladies," don Juan shouted as he stood up dramatically.
The women looked at him, apparently confused by his sudden outburst.
"My mom broke her hip right there the other day," he added and dashed
over to help them.
They thanked him profusely and he advised them that if they ever lost
their balance and fell
down, they had to remain motionless on the spot until the ambulance
came. His tone was sincere
and convincing. The women crossed themselves.
75
Don Juan sat down again. His eyes were beaming. He spoke softly.
"Those women are not that old and their bodies are not that weak, and
yet they are decrepit.
Everything about them is dreary - their clothes, their smell, their
attitude. Why do you think that's
so?"
"Maybe they were born that way," I said.
"No one is born that way. We make ourselves that way. The tonal of
those women is weak and
timid.
"I said that today was going to be the day of the tonal; I meant that
today I want to deal with it
exclusively. I also said that I had put on my suit for that specific
purpose. With it I wanted to
show you that a warrior treats his tonal in a very special manner. I've
pointed out to you that my
suit has been made to order and that everything I have on today fits me
to perfection. It is not my
vanity that I wanted to show, but my warrior's spirit, my warrior's
tonal.
"Those two women gave you your first view of the tonal today. Life can
be as merciless with
you as it is with them, if you are careless with your tonal. I put
myself as the counterpoint. If you
understand correctly I should not need to stress this point."
I had a sudden attack of uncertainty and asked him to spell out what I
should have understood.
I must have sounded desperate. He laughed out loud.
"Look at that young man in green pants and a pink shirt," don Juan
whispered, pointing to a
very thin and very dark complexioned, sharp-featured young man who was
standing almost in
front of us.
He seemed to be undecided whether to go towards the church or towards
the street. Twice he
raised his hand in the direction of the church as though he were
talking to himself and were about
to start moving towards it. Then he stared at me with a blank
expression.
"Look at the way he's dressed," don Juan said in a whisper. "Look at
those shoes!"
The young man's clothes were tattered and wrinkled, and his shoes were
in absolute pieces.
"He's obviously very poor," I said.
"Is that all you can say about him?" he asked.
I enumerated a series of reasons that might have accounted for the
young man's shabbiness:
poor health, bad luck, indolence, indifference to his personal
appearance, or the chance that he
may have just been released from prison.
Don Juan said that I was merely speculating, and that he was not
interested in justifying
anything by suggesting that the man was a victim of unconquerable
forces.
"Maybe he's a secret agent made to look like a bum," I said jokingly.
The young man walked away towards the street with a disjointed gait.
"He's not made to look like a bum; he is a bum," don Juan said. "Look
how weak his body is.
His arms and legs are thin. He can hardly walk. No one can pretend to
look that way. There is
something definitely wrong with him, not his circumstances, though. I
have to stress again that I
want you to see that man as a tonal"
"What does it entail to see a man as a tonal?"
"It entails to cease judging him in a moral sense, or excusing him on
the grounds that he is like
a leaf at the mercy of the wind. In other words, it entails seeing a
man without thinking that he is
hopeless or helpless.
"You know exactly what I am talking about. You can assess that young
man without
condemning or forgiving him."
“He drinks too much," I said.
My statement was not volitional. I just made it without really knowing
why. For an instant I
even felt that someone standing behind me had voiced the words, I was
moved to explain that my
statement was another of my speculations.
76
"That was not the case," don Juan said. "Your tone of voice had a
certainty that you lacked
before. You didn't say, 'Maybe he's a drunkard.'"
I felt embarrassed although I could not exactly determine why. Don Juan
laughed.
"You saw through the man," he said. "That was seeing. Seeing is like
that. Statements are
made with great certainty, and one doesn't know how it happened.
"You know that young man's tonal was shot, but you don't know how you
know it."
I had to admit that somehow I had had that impression.
"You're right," don Juan said. "It doesn't really matter that he's
young, he's as decrepit as the
two women. Youth is in no way a barrier against the deterioration of
the tonal.
"You thought that there might be a great many reasons for that man's
condition. I find that
there is only one, his tonal. It is not that his tonal is weak because
he drinks; it is the other way
around, he drinks because his tonal is weak. That weakness forces him
to be what he is. But the
same thing happens to all of us, in one form or another."
"But aren't you also justifying his behavior by saying that it's his
tonal?"
"I'm giving you an explanation that you have never encountered before.
It is not a justification
or a condemnation, though. That young man's tonal is weak and timid.
And yet he's not unique.
All of us are more or less in the same boat."
At that moment a very large man passed in front of us heading towards
the church. He was
wearing an expensive dark gray business suit and was carrying a
briefcase. The collar of his shirt
was unbuttoned and his necktie loose. He was sweating profusely. He had
a very light
complexion which made the perspiration all the more obvious.
"Watch him!" don Juan ordered me.
The man's steps were small but heavy. There was a wobbling quality to
his walking. He did
not go up to the church; he circumvented it and disappeared behind it.
"There is no need to treat the body in such an awful manner," don Juan
said with a note of
scorn. "But the sad fact is that all of us have learned to perfection
how to make our tonal weak. I
have called that indulging."
He put his hand on my notebook and did not let me write any more. His
rationale was that as
long as I kept on taking notes I was incapable of concentrating. He
suggested I should relax, shut
off the internal dialogue and let go, merging with the person being
observed.
I asked him to explain what he meant by "merging." He said there was no
way to explain it,
that it was something that the body felt or did when put in
observational contact with other
bodies. He then clarified the issue by saying that in the past he had
called that process seeing, and
that it consisted of a lull of true silence within, followed by an
outward elongation of something
in the self, an elongation that met and merged with the other body, or
with anything within one's
field of awareness.
At that point I wanted to get back to my writing pad, but he stopped me
and began to single
out different people from the crowd that passed by.
He pointed out dozens of persons covering a wide range of types among
men, women and
children of various ages. Don Juan said that he had selected persons
whose weak tonal could fit
into a categorization scheme, and thus he had acquainted me with a
preconceived variety of
indulging.
I did not remember all the people he had pointed out and discussed. I
complained that if I had
taken notes I could have at least sketched out the intricacies of his
schemata on indulging. As it
was he did not want to repeat it or perhaps he did not remember it
either.
He laughed and said that he did not remember it, because in the life of
a sorcerer it was the
nagual that was accountable for creativity.
77
He looked at the sky and said that it was getting late, and that from
that moment on we were
going to change direction. Instead of weak tonals we were going to wait
for the appearance of a
"proper tonal." He added that only a warrior had a "proper tonal," and
that the average man, at
best, could have a "right tonal."
After a few minutes' wait he slapped his thigh and chuckled.
"Look who's coming now," he said, pointing to the street with a
movement of his chin. "It is as
if they were made to order."
I saw three male Indians approaching. They had on some short brown
woolen ponchos, white
pants that came to their mid calf, long-sleeved white tops, dirty
worn-out sandals and old straw
hats. Each of them carried a bundle tied to his back.
Don Juan stood up and went to meet them. He spoke to them. They seemed
surprised and
surrounded him. They smiled at him. He was apparently telling them
something about me; the
three of them turned around and smiled at me. They were about ten or
twelve feet away; I listened
carefully but I could not hear what they were saying.
Don Juan reached in his pocket and handed them some bills. They
appeared to be pleased;
they moved their feet nervously. I liked them very much. They looked
like children. All of them
had small white teeth and very pleasing mild features. One, by all
appearances the oldest, had
whiskers. His eyes were tired but very kind. He took off his hat and
came closer to the bench. The
others followed him. The three of them greeted me in unison. We shook
hands. Don Juan told me
to give them some money. They thanked me and after a polite silence
they said good-by. Don
Juan sat back down on the bench and we watched them disappear in the
crowd.
I told don Juan that for some strange reason I had liked them very much.
"It isn't so strange," he said. "You must've felt that their tonal is
just right. It is right, but not
for our time.
"You probably felt they were like children. They are. And that is very
tough. I understand
them better than you, thus I couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness.
Indians are like dogs, they
have nothing. But that is the nature of their fortune and I shouldn't
feel sad. My sadness, of
course, is my own way of indulging."
"Where are they from, don Juan?"
"From the Sierras. They've come here to seek their fortune. They want
to become merchants.
They're brothers. I told them that I also came from the Sierras and I'm
a merchant myself. I said
that you were my partner. The money we gave them was a token; a warrior
should give tokens
like that all the time. They no doubt need the money, but need should
not be an essential
consideration for a token. The thing to look for is feeling. I
personally was moved by those three.
"Indians are the losers of our time. Their downfall began with the
Spaniards and now under
the reign of their descendants the Indians have lost everything. It is
not an exaggeration to say
that the Indians have lost their tonal"
"Is that a metaphor, don Juan?"
"No. It is a fact. The tonal is very vulnerable. It cannot withstand
maltreatment. The white
man, from the day he set foot on this land, has systematically
destroyed not only the Indian tonal
of the time, but also the personal tonal of every Indian. One can
easily surmise that for the poor
average Indian the reign of the white man has been sheer hell. And yet
the irony is that for
another kind of Indian it has been sheer bliss."
"Who are you talking about? What kind of Indian is that?"
"The sorcerer. For the sorcerer the Conquest was the challenge of a
lifetime. They were the
only ones who were not destroyed by it but adapted to it and used it to
their ultimate advantage."
"How was that possible, don Juan? I was under the impression that the
Spaniards left no stone
78
unturned."
"Let's say that they turned over all the stones that were within the
limits of their own tonal. In
the Indian life, however, there were things that were incomprehensible
to the white man; those
things he did not even notice. Perhaps it was the sheer luck of the
sorcerers, or perhaps it was
their knowledge that saved them. After the tonal of the time and the
personal tonal of every
Indian was obliterated, the sorcerers found themselves holding on to
the only thing left
uncontested, the nagual. In other words, their tonal took refuge in
their nagual. This couldn't
have happened had it not been for the excruciating conditions of a
vanquished people. The men of
knowledge of today are the product of those conditions and are the
ultimate connoisseurs of the
nagual since they were left there thoroughly alone. There, the white
man has never ventured. In
fact, he doesn't even have the idea it exists."
I felt compelled at that point to present an argument. I sincerely
contended that in European
thought we had accounted for what he called the nagual. I brought in
the concept of the
Transcendental Ego, or the unobserved observer present in all our
thoughts, perceptions and
feelings. I explained to don Juan that the individual could perceive or
intuit himself, as a self,
through the Transcendental Ego, because this was the only thing capable
of judgment, capable of
disclosing reality within the realm of its consciousness.
Don Juan was unruffled. He laughed.
"Disclosing reality," he said, mimicking me. "That's the tonal."
I argued that the tonal may be called the Empirical Ego found in one's
passing stream of
consciousness or experience, while the Transcendental Ego was found
behind that stream.
"Watching, I suppose," he said mockingly.
"That's right. Watching itself," I said.
"I hear you talking," he said. "But you're saying nothing. The nagual
is not experience or
intuition or consciousness. Those terms and everything else you may
care to say are only items on
the island of the tonal. The nagual, on the other hand, is only effect.
The tonal begins at birth and
ends at death, but the nagual never ends. The nagual has no limit. I've
said that the nagual is
where power hovers; that was only a way of alluding to it. By reasons
of its effect, perhaps the
nagual can be best understood in terms of power. For instance, when you
felt numb and couldn't
talk earlier today, I was actually soothing you; that is, my nagual was
acting upon you."
"How was that possible, don Juan?"
"You won't believe this, but no one knows how. All I know is that I
wanted your undivided
attention and then my nagual went to work on you. I know that much
because I can witness its
effect, but I don't know how it works."
He was quiet for a while. I wanted to keep on the same topic. I at
tempted to ask a question; he
silenced me.
"One can say that the nagual accounts for creativity," he finally said
and looked at me
piercingly. "The nagual is the only part of us that can create."
He remained quiet, looking at me. I felt he was definitely leading me
into an area I had
wished he would elucidate further. He had said that the tonal did not
create anything, but only
witnessed and assessed. I asked how he explained the fact that we
construct superb structures and
machines.
"That's not creativity," he said. "That's only molding. We can mold
anything with our hands,
personally or in conjunction with the hands of other tonals. A group of
tonals can mold anything,
superb structures as you said."
"But what's creativity then, don Juan?"
He stared at me, squinting his eyes. He chuckled softly, lifted his
right hand over his head and
79
twisted his wrist with a sharp jerk, as if he were turning a door knob.
"Creativity is this," he said and brought his hand with a cupped palm
to the level of my eyes.
It took me an incredibly long time to focus my eyes on his hand. I felt
that a transparent
membrane was holding my whole body in a fixed position and that I had
to break it in order to
place my sight on his hand.
I struggled until beads of perspiration ran into my eyes. Finally I
heard or felt a pop and my
eyes and head jerked free.
On his right palm there was the most curious rodent I had ever seen. It
looked like a bushytailed
squirrel. The tail, however, was more like a porcupine's. It had stiff
quills.
"Touch it!" don Juan said softly.
I automatically obeyed him and ran my finger on its soft back. Don Juan
brought his hand
closer to my eyes and then I noticed something that threw me into
nervous spasms. The squirrel
had eyeglasses and big teeth.
"It looks like a Japanese," I said and began to laugh hysterically.
The rodent then started to grow in don Juan's palm. And while my eyes
were still filled with
tears of laughter, the rodent became so enormous that it disappeared.
It literally went out of the
frame of my vision. It happened so rapidly that I was caught in the
middle of a spasm of laughter.
When I looked again, or when I wiped my eyes and focused them properly,
I was looking at don
Juan. He was sitting on the bench and I was standing in front of him,
although I did not remember
having stood up.
For a moment my nervousness was uncontainable. Don Juan calmly got up,
forced me to sit,
propped my chin between the bicep and forearm of his left arm and hit
me on the very top of my
head with the knuckles of his right hand. The effect was like the jolt
of an electric current. It
calmed me down immediately.
There were so many things that I wanted to ask. But my words could not
wade through all
those thoughts. I then became keenly aware that I had lost control over
my vocal cords. I did not
want to struggle to speak, however, and leaned against the back of the
bench. Don Juan said
forcefully that I had to pull myself together and stop indulging. I
felt a bit dizzy. He imperatively
ordered me to write my notes and handed me my pad and pencil after
picking them up from
underneath the bench.
I made a supreme effort to say something and again I had the clear
sensation that a membrane
was enveloping me. I puffed and groaned for a moment, while don Juan
laughed, until I heard or
felt another pop.
I began to write immediately. Don Juan spoke as if he were dictating to
me.
"One of the acts of a warrior is never to let anything affect him," he
said. "Thus, a warrior may
be seeing the devil himself, but he won't let anyone know that. The
control of a warrior has to be
impeccable."
He waited until I had finished writing and then asked me laughingly,
"Did you get all that?"
I suggested that we should go to a restaurant and have dinner. I was
famished. He said that we
had to stay until the "proper tonal" appeared. He added in a serious
tone that if the "proper tonal"
did not come that day we had to remain on the bench until it cared to
show up.
"What is a proper tonal?" I asked.
"A tonal that is just right, balanced and harmonious. You are supposed
to find one today, or
rather your power is supposed to bring one to us."
"But how can I tell it apart from other tonals?"
"Never mind that. I will point it out to you."
"What is it like, don Juan?"
80
"Hard to tell. It depends on you. This is a show for you, therefore you
will set up those
conditions yourself."
"How?"
"I don't know that. Your power, your nagual, will do that.
"There are, roughly speaking, two sides to every tonal. One is the
outer part, the fringe, the
surface of the island. That's the part related to action and acting,
the rugged side. The other part is
the decision and judgment, the inner tonal, softer, more delicate and
more complex.
"The proper tonal is a tonal where the two levels are in perfect
harmony and balance."
Don Juan stopped talking. It was fairly dark by then and I had a hard
time taking notes. He
told me to stretch and relax. He said that it had been quite an
exhausting day but very prolific and
that he was sure the proper tonal would show up.
Dozens of people went by. We sat in a relaxed silence for ten or
fifteen minutes. Then don
Juan stood up abruptly.
"By golly you've done it! Look what's coming there. A girl!"
He pointed with a nod of his head to a young woman who was crossing the
park and was
approaching the vicinity of our bench. Don Juan said that that young
woman was the proper tonal
and that if she would stop to talk to either one of us it would be an
extraordinary omen and we
would have to do whatever she wanted.
I could not clearly distinguish the young woman's features, although
there was still enough
light. She came within a couple of feet but went by without looking at
us. Don Juan ordered me in
a whisper to get up and go talk to her.
I ran after her and asked for directions. I got very close to her. She
was young, perhaps in her
mid-twenties, of medium height, very attractive and well-groomed. Her
eyes were clear and
peaceful. She smiled at me as I spoke. There was something winning
about her. I liked her as
much as I had liked the three Indians.
I went back to the bench and sat down.
"Is she a warrior?" I asked.
"Not quite," don Juan said. "Your power is not that keen yet to bring a
warrior. But she's a just
right tonal. One that could turn into a proper tonal. Warriors come
from that stock."
His statements aroused my curiosity. I asked him if women could be
warriors. He looked at
me, apparently baffled by my question.
"Of course they can," he said, "and they are even better equipped for
the path of knowledge
than men. But then men are a bit more resilient. I would say, however,
that, all in all, women
have a slight advantage."
I said that it puzzled me that we had never talked about women in
relation to his knowledge.
"You're a man," he said, "therefore I use the masculine gender when I
talk to you. That's all.
The rest is the same."
I wanted to question him further but he made a gesture to close the
topic. He looked up. The
sky was almost black. The banks of clouds looked extremely dark. There
were still, however,
some areas where the clouds were slightly orange.
"The end of the day is your best time," don Juan said. "The appearance
of that young woman
at the very edge of the day is an omen. We were talking about the
tonal, therefore it is an omen
about your tonal."
"What does the omen mean, don Juan?"
"It means that you have very little time left to organize your
arrangements. Any arrangements
that you might have constructed have to be viable arrangements because
you don't have time to
make new ones. Your arrangements must work now, or they are not
arrangements at all.
81
"I suggest that when you go back home you check your lines and make
sure they are strong.
You will need them."
"What's going to happen to me, don Juan?"
"Years ago you bid for power. You have followed the hardships of
learning faithfully, without
fretting or rushing. You are now at the edge of the day."
"What does that mean?"
"For a proper tonal everything on the island of the tonal is a
challenge. Another way of saying
it is that for a warrior everything in this world is a challenge. The
greatest challenge of all, of
course, is his bid for power. But power comes from the nagual, and when
a warrior finds himself
at the edge of the day it means that the hour of the nagual is
approaching, the warrior's hour of
power."
"I still don't understand the meaning of all this, don Juan. Does it
mean that I am going to die
soon?"
"If you're stupid, you will," he retorted cuttingly. "But putting it in
milder terms, it means that
you're about to shiver in your pants. You bid for power once and that
bidding is irreversible. I
won't say that you're about to fulfill your destiny, because there is
no destiny. The only thing that
one can say then is that you're about to fulfill your power. The omen
was clear. That young
woman came to you at the edge of the day. You have little time left,
and none of it for crap. A
fine state. I would say that the best of us always comes out when we
are against the wall, when
we feel the sword dangling overhead. Personally, I wouldn't have it any
other way."
82
6. Shrinking The Tonal
On Wednesday morning I left my hotel around nine forty-five. I walked
slowly, allowing
myself fifteen minutes to reach the place where don Juan and I had
agreed to meet. He had picked
a corner on the Paseo de la Reforma, five or six blocks away, in front
of the ticket office of an
airline.
I had just finished eating breakfast with a friend of mine. He had
wanted to walk with me but I
had insinuated that I was going to meet a girl. I deliberately walked
on the opposite side of the
street from where the airline office was. I had the nagging suspicion
that my friend, who had
always wanted me to introduce him to don Juan, knew that I was going to
meet him and might be
following me. I was afraid that if I turned around I would find him
behind me.
I saw don Juan at a magazine stand, on the other side of the street. I
started to cross over but
had to stop on the divider and wait there until it was safe to walk all
the way across the wide
boulevard. I turned around casually to see if my friend was following
me. He was standing on the
corner behind me. He smiled sheepishly and waved his hand, as if
telling me that he had been
incapable of controlling himself. I dashed across the street without
giving him time to catch up
with me.
Don Juan seemed to be aware of my predicament. When I reached him, he
gave a furtive
glance over my shoulder.
"He's coming," he said. "We'd better go down the side street."
He pointed to a street which cut diagonally into the Paseo de la
Reforma at the point where we
were standing. I quickly oriented myself. I had never been on that
street, but two days before I
had been in the airline ticket office. I knew its peculiar layout. The
office was on the pointed
corner made by the two streets. It had a door opening onto each street,
and the distance between
the two doors must have been about ten to twelve feet. There was an
aisle through the office from
door to door, and one could easily go from one street to the other.
There were desks on one side
of that pathway and a large round counter with clerks and cashiers on
the other side. The day I
had been there, the place had been filled with people.
I wanted to hurry up, perhaps even run, but don Juan's pace was
relaxed. As we reached the
office door, on the diagonal street, I knew, without having to turn
around, that my friend had also
run across the boulevard and was about to turn into the street where we
were walking. I looked at
don Juan, hoping that he had a solution. He shrugged his shoulders. I
felt annoyed and could not
think of anything myself, short of punching my friend in the nose. I
must have sighed or exhaled
at that very moment, because the next thing I felt was sudden loss of
air due to a formidable
shove that don Juan had given me, which sent me whirling through the
door of the airline office.
Propelled by his tremendous push, I practically flew into the room. Don
Juan had caught me so
unprepared that my body had not offered any resistance; my fright
merged with the actual jolt of
his thrust. I automatically put my arms in front of me to protect my
face. The force of don Juan's
shove had been so great that saliva flew out of my mouth and I
experienced a mild vertigo as I
stumbled inside the room. I nearly lost my balance and had to make a
supreme effort not to fall
down. I twirled around a couple of times; it seemed that the speed of
my movements made the
scene blurry. I vaguely noticed a crowd of customers conducting their
business. I felt extremely
embarrassed. I knew that everyone was looking at me as I reeled across
the room. The idea that I
was making a fool out of myself was more than discomforting. A series
of thoughts flashed
through my mind. I had the certainty that I was going to fall on my
face. Or I would bump into a
customer, perhaps an old lady, who would be injured by the impact. Or
worse yet, the glass door
at the other end would be closed and I would smash against it.
83
In a dazed state I reached the door to the Paseo de la Reforma. It was
open and I stepped out.
My preoccupation of the moment was that I had to keep cool, turn to my
right and walk on the
boulevard towards downtown as if nothing had happened. I was sure that
don Juan would join me
and that perhaps my friend might have kept on walking along the
diagonal street.
I opened my eyes, or rather I focused them on the area in front of me.
I had a long moment of
numbness before I fully realized what had happened. I was not on the
Paseo de la Reforma, as I
should have been, but in the Lagunilla market one and a half miles away.
What I experienced at the moment of that realization was such an
intense astonishment that all
I could do was stare, stupefied.
I looked around in order to orient myself. I realized that I was
actually standing very close to
where I had met don Juan on my first day in Mexico City. Perhaps I was
even on the same spot.
The stands that sold old coins were five feet away. I made a supreme
effort to take hold of
myself. Obviously I had to be experiencing a hallucination. It could
not possibly be any other
way. I quickly turned to go back through the door into the office, but
behind me there was only a
row of stands with secondhand books and magazines. Don Juan was
standing next to me, to my
right. He had an enormous smile on his face.
There was a pressure in my head, a tickling feeling, as if carbonated
soda were going through
my nose. I was speechless. I tried to say something without success.
I clearly heard don Juan say that I should not try to talk or think,
but I wanted to say
something, anything. An awful nervousness was building up inside my
chest. I felt tears rolling
down my cheeks.
Don Juan did not shake me, as he usually does when I fall prey to an
uncontrollable fear.
Instead he patted me gently on the head.
"Now, now, little Carlos," he said. "Don't lose your marbles."
He held my face in his hands for an instant.
"Don't try to talk," he said.
He let my face go and pointed to what was taking place all around us.
"This is not for talking," he said. "This is only for watching. Watch!
Watch everything!"
I was really crying. My reaction to my crying was very strange,
however; I kept on weeping
without any concern. It did not matter to me, at that moment, whether
or not I was making a fool
out of myself.
I looked around. Right in front of me there was a middle-aged man
wearing a pink shortsleeved
shirt and dark gray pants. He seemed to be an American. A chubby woman,
apparently
his wife, was holding on to his arm. The man was handling some coins,
while a thirteen- or
fourteen-year-old boy, perhaps the son of the proprietor, watched him.
The boy followed every
movement the older man made. Finally, the man put the coins back on the
table and the boy
immediately relaxed.
"Watch everything!" don Juan demanded again.
There was nothing unusual to watch. People were passing by, going in
every direction. I
turned around. A man, who appeared to run the magazine stand, was
staring at me. He blinked
repeatedly as if he were about to fall asleep. He seemed tired or sick
and looked seedy.
I felt that there was nothing to watch, at least nothing of real
consequence. I stared at the
scene. I found that it was impossible to concentrate my attention on
anything. Don Juan walked in
a circle around me. He acted as if he were assessing something in me.
He shook his head and
puckered his lips.
"Come, come," he said, grabbing me gently by the arm. "It's time to
walk."
As soon as we began to move I noticed that my body was very light. In
fact, I felt that the
84
soles of my feet were spongy. They had a peculiar rubbery, springing
quality.
Don Juan must have been aware of my sensations; he held me tightly, as
if not to let me
escape; he pressed down on me, as though he were afraid I would move
upwards beyond his
reach, like a balloon.
Walking made me feel better. My nervousness gave way to a comfortable
easiness.
Don Juan insisted again that I should observe everything. I told him
that there was nothing I
wanted to watch, that it made no difference to me what people were
doing in the market, and that
I did not want to feel like an idiot dutifully observing some moronic
activity of someone buying
coins and old books, while the real thing was escaping through my
fingers.
"What is the real thing?" he asked.
I stopped walking and vehemently told him that the important thing was
whatever he had done
to make me perceive that I had covered the distance between the ticket
office and the market in
seconds.
At that point I began to shiver and felt I was going to get ill. Don
Juan made me put my hands
against my stomach.
He pointed all around him and stated again, in a matter-of-fact tone,
that the mundane activity
around us was the only thing of importance.
I felt annoyed with him. I had the physical feeling of spinning. I took
a deep breath.
"What did you do, don Juan?" I asked with forced casualness.
With a reassuring tone he said that he could tell me about that any
time, but that whatever was
happening all around me was not ever going to be repeated. I had no
quarrel with that. The
activity I was witnessing obviously could not be repeated again in all
its complexity. My point
was that I could observe a very similar activity any time. On the other
hand, the implication of
having been transported over the distance, in whatever form, was of
immeasurable significance.
When I voiced these opinions don Juan made his head shiver as if what
he had heard me say
was actually painful to him.
We walked in silence for a moment. My body was feverish. I noticed that
the palms of my
hands and the soles of my feet were burning hot. The same unusual heat
also seemed to be
localized in my nostrils and eyelids.
"What did you do, don Juan?" I asked him pleadingly.
He did not answer me but patted me on the chest and laughed. He said
that men were very
frail creatures, who made themselves even more frail with their
indulging. In a very serious tone
he exhorted me not to feel that I was about to perish but to push
myself beyond my limits and to
simply engage my attention on the world around me.
We continued walking at a very slow pace. My preoccupation was
paramount. I could not pay
attention to anything. Don Juan stopped and seemed to deliberate
whether or not to speak. He
opened his mouth to say something, but then he appeared to change his
mind and we began to
walk again.
"What happened is that you came here," he said abruptly as he turned
and stared at me.
"How did that happen?"
He said that he did not know, and that the only thing he did know was
that I had selected that
place myself.
Our impasse became even more hopeless as we kept on talking. I wanted
to know the steps
and he insisted that the selection of the place was the only thing we
could discuss, and since I did
not know why I had chosen it, there was essentially nothing to talk
about. He criticized, without
getting angry, my obsession to reason out everything as an unnecessary
indulging. He said that it
was simpler and more effective just to act, without seeking
explanations, and that by talking
85
about my experience and by thinking about it I was dissipating it.
After a few moments he said that we had to leave that place because I
had spoiled it and it
would become increasingly injurious to me.
We left the market and walked to the Alameda Park. I was exhausted. I
plunked down on a
bench. It was only then that it occurred to me to look at my watch. It
was 10:20 A.M. I had to
make quite an effort in order to focus my attention. I did not remember
the exact time when I had
met don Juan. I calculated that it must have been around ten. And it
could not have taken us more
than ten minutes to walk from the market to the park, which left only
ten minutes unaccounted
for.
I told don Juan about my calculations. He smiled. I had the certainty
that his smile hid his
contempt for me, yet there was nothing in his face to betray that
feeling.
"You think I'm a hopeless idiot, don't you, don Juan?"
"Ah ha!" he said and jumped to his feet.
His reaction was so unexpected that I also jumped up at the same time.
"Tell me exactly what you think my feelings are," he said emphatically.
I felt I knew his feelings. It was as if I were feeling them myself.
But when I tried to say what
I felt, I realized I could not talk about it. To speak required a
tremendous effort.
Don Juan said that I did not have enough power yet to see him. But I
could certainly see
enough to find myself suitable explanations for what was happening.
"Don't be bashful," he said. "Tell me exactly what you see."
I had a sudden and strange thought, very similar to thoughts that
usually come to my mind just
before falling asleep. It was more than a thought; a complete image
would be a better description
of it. I saw a tableau containing various personages. The one which was
directly in front of me
was a man sitting behind a window frame. The area beyond the frame was
diffuse, but the frame
and the man were crystal clear. He was looking at me; his head was
turned slightly to his left, so
he was actually looking askance at me. I could see his eyes moving to
keep me within focus. He
was leaning on the windowsill with his right elbow. His hand was
clenched into a fist and his
muscles were contracted.
To the left of the man there was another image in the tableau. It was a
flying lion. That is, the
head and the mane were those of a lion but the lower part of its body
belonged to a curly white
French poodle.
I was about to focus my attention on it, when the man made a smacking
sound with his lips
and stuck his head and trunk out of the window. His whole body emerged
as if something were
pushing him. He hung for a moment, grabbing the windowsill with the
tips of his fingers as he
swung like a pendulum. Then he let go.
I experienced in my own body the sensation of falling. It was not a
plummeting down, but a
soft descent, and then a cushioned floating. The man was weightless. He
remained stationary for
a moment and then he went out of sight as if an uncontrollable force
had sipped him away
through a crack in the tableau. An instant later he was back at the
window looking askance at me.
His right forearm was resting on the windowsill, only this time his
hand was waving good-by to
me.
Don Juan's comment was that my seeing was too elaborate.
"You can do better than that," he said. "You want me to explain what
happened. Well, I want
you to use your seeing to do that. You saw, but you saw crap. That kind
of information is useless
to a warrior. It would take too long to figure out what's what. Seeing
must be direct, for a warrior
can't use his time to unravel what he himself is seeing. Seeing is
seeing because it cuts through all
that nonsense."
86
I asked him if he thought that my vision had only been a hallucination
and not really seeing.
He was convinced it had been seeing because of the intricacy of detail,
but that it was
inappropriate for the occasion.
"Do you think that my visions explain anything?" I asked.
"Sure they do. But I wouldn't try to unravel them if I were you. In the
beginning seeing is
confusing and it's easy to get lost in it. As the warrior gets tighter,
however, his seeing becomes
what it should be, a direct knowing."
As don Juan spoke I had one of those peculiar lapses of feelings and I
clearly sensed that I was
about to unveil something which I already knew, a thing which eluded me
by turning into
something very blurry. I became aware that I was involved in a
struggle. The more I tried to
define or reach that elusive piece of knowledge the deeper it sank.
"That seeing was too... too visionary," don Juan said.
The sound of his voice shook me.
"A warrior asks a question, and through his seeing he gets an answer,
but the answer is simple,
never embellished to the point of flying French poodles."
We laughed at the image. And half jokingly I told him that he was too
strict, that anyone going
through what I had gone through that morning deserved a bit of leniency.
"That is the easy way out," he said. "That is the indulging way. You
hinge the world on the
feeling that everything is too much for you. You're not living like a
warrior."
I told him that there were so many facets of what he called a warrior's
way that it was
impossible to fulfill all of them, and that the meaning of it became
clear only as I encountered
new instances where I had to apply it.
"A rule of thumb for a warrior," he said, "is that he makes his
decisions so carefully that
nothing that may happen as a result of them can surprise him, much less
drain his power.
"To be a warrior means to be humble and alert. Today you were supposed
to watch the scene
which was unfolding in front of your eyes, not to ponder how all that
was possible. You focused
your attention on the wrong place. If I wanted to be lenient with you I
could easily say that since
this was the first time it had happened to you, you were not prepared.
But that's not permissible,
because you came here as a warrior, ready to die; therefore, what
happened to you today shouldn't
have caught you with your pants down."
I conceded that my tendency was to indulge in fear and bewilderment.
"Let's say that a rule of thumb for you should be that when you come to
see me you should
come prepared to die," he said. "If you come here ready to die, there
shouldn't be any pitfalls, or
any unwelcome surprises, or any unnecessary acts. Everything should
gently fall into place
because you're expecting nothing."
"That's easy to say, don Juan. I am on the receiving end, though. I am
the one who has to live
with all this."
"It is not that you have to live with all this. You are all this.
You're not just tolerating it for the
time being. Your decision to join forces with this evil world of
sorcery should have burned all the
lingering feelings of confusion and should give you the spunk to claim
all this as your world."
I felt embarrassed and sad. Don Juan's actions, no matter how prepared
I was, taxed me in
such a way that every time I came in contact with him I was left with
no other recourse but to act
and feel like a half-rational, nagging person. I had a surge of wrath
and did not want to write any
more. At that moment I wanted to rip my notes and throw everything in
the trash can. And I
would have done that had it not been for don Juan, who laughed and held
my arm, restraining me.
In a mocking tone he said that my tonal was about to fool itself again.
He recommended that I
should go to the fountain and splash water on my neck and ears.
87
The water soothed me. We were quiet for a long time.
"Write, write," don Juan coaxed me in a friendly tone. "Let's say that
your notebook is the
only sorcery you have. To rip it up is another way of opening yourself
to your death. It will be
another of your tantrums, a flashy tantrum at best, not a change. A
warrior doesn't ever leave the
island of the tonal. He uses it."
He pointed all around me with a quick movement of his hand and then
touched my notebook.
"This is your world. You can't renounce it. It is useless to get angry
and feel disappointed with
oneself. All that that proves is that one's tonal is involved in an
internal battle; a battle within
one's tonal is one of the most inane contests I can think of. The tight
life of a warrior is designed
to end that struggle. From the beginning I have taught you to avoid
wear and tear. Now there is
no longer a war within you, not as it used to be, because the warrior's
way is harmony - the
harmony between actions and decisions, at first, and then the harmony
between tonal and nagual.
"Throughout the time I have known you, I have talked to both your tonal
and your nagual.
That is the way the instruction should be conducted.
"In the beginning, one has to talk to the tonal. It is the tonal that
has to relinquish control. But
it should be made to do so gladly. For example, your tonal has
relinquished some controls
without much struggle, because it became clear to it that, had it
remained the way it was, the
totality of you would be dead by now. In other words, the tonal is made
to give up unnecessary
things like self-importance and indulging, which only plunge it into
boredom. The whole trouble
is that the tonal clings to those things when it should be glad to rid
itself of that crap. The task
then is to convince the tonal to become free and fluid. That's what a
sorcerer needs before
anything else, a strong, free tonal. The stronger it gets the less it
clings to its doings, and the
easier it is to shrink it. So what happened this morning was that I saw
the opportunity to shrink
your tonal. For an instant, you were absent-minded, hurrying, not
thinking, and I grabbed that
moment to shove you.
"The tonal shrinks at given times, especially when it is embarrassed.
In fact, one of the
features of the tonal is its shyness. Its shyness is not really an
issue. But there are certain
instances when the tonal is taken by surprise, and its shyness
unavoidably makes it shrink.
"This morning I plucked my cubic centimeter of chance. I noticed the
open door of that office
and gave you a shove. A shove is then the technique for shrinking the
tonal. One must shove at
the precise instant; for that, of course, one must know how to see.
"Once the man has been shoved and his tonal has shrunk, his nagual, if
it is already in motion,
no matter how small this motion is, will take over and achieve
extraordinary deeds. Your nagual
took over this morning and you ended up in the market."
He remained silent for a moment. He seemed to be waiting for questions.
We looked at each
other.
"I really don't know how," he said as if reading my mind. "All I know
is that the nagual is
capable of inconceivable feats.
"This morning I asked you to watch. That scene in front of you,
whatever it may have been,
had an incalculable value for you. But instead of following my advice,
you indulged in self-pity
and confusion and did not watch.
"For a while you were all nagual and could not talk. That was the time
to watch. Then, little
by little, your tonal took over again; and rather than plunging you
into a deadly battle between
your tonal and nagual, I walked you here."
"What was there in that scene, don Juan? What was so important?"
"I don't know. It wasn't happening to me."
"What do you mean?"
88
"It was your experience, not mine."
"But you were with me. Weren't you?"
"No. I wasn't. You were alone. I repeatedly told you to watch
everything, because that scene
was only for you."
"But you were next to me, don Juan."
"No. I wasn't. But it's useless to talk about it. Whatever I may say
doesn't make sense, because
during those moments we were in nagual's time. The affairs of the
nagual can be witnessed only
with the body, not the reason."
"If you were not with me, don Juan, who or what was the person I
witnessed as you?"
"It was me and yet I wasn't there."
"Where were you then?"
"I was with you, but not there. Let's say that I was around you but not
in the particular place
where your nagual had taken you."
"You mean you didn't know that we were at the market?"
"No, I didn't. I just tagged along in order not to lose you."
"This is truly awesome, don Juan."
"We were in nagual's time, and there is nothing awesome about it. We
are capable of much
more than that. That is the nature of us as luminous beings. Our flaw
is to insist on remaining on
our monotonous, tiring, but convenient island. The tonal is the villain
and it shouldn't be."
I described the little bit I remembered. He wanted to know if I had
witnessed any features of
the sky, such as daylight, clouds, the sun. Or if I had heard noises of
any sort. Or if I had caught
sight of unusual people or events. He wanted to know if there had been
any fights. Or if people
were yelling, and if they were, what they had said.
I could not answer any of his questions. The plain truth was that I had
accepted the event at its
apparent face value, admitting as a truism that I had "flown" over a
considerable distance in one
or two seconds, and that thanks to don Juan's knowledge, whatever it
may have been, I had
landed in all my material corporeality inside the market.
My reactions were a direct corollary of such an interpretation. I
wanted to know the
procedures, the member's knowledge, the "how to do it." Therefore, I
did not care to observe what
I was convinced were the ordinary happenings of a mundane event.
"Do you think that people saw me in the market?" I asked.
Don Juan did not answer. He laughed and tapped me lightly with his fist.
I tried to remember if I had actually had any physical contact with
people. My memory failed
me.
"What did the people in the airline office see when I stumbled in?" I
asked.
"They probably saw a man staggering from one door to the other."
"But did they see me disappear into thin air?"
"That is taken care of by the nagual. I don't know how. All I can tell
you is that we are fluid,
luminous beings made out of fibers. The agreement that we are solid
objects is the tonal's doing.
When the tonal shrinks, extraordinary things are possible. But they are
only extraordinary for the
tonal.
"For the nagual, it's nothing to move the way you did this morning.
Especially for your
nagual, which is already capable of difficult ploys. As a matter of
fact, it has plunged into
something terribly weird. Can you feel what it is?"
A million questions and feelings came to me all at once. It was as if a
gust of wind had blown
off my veneer of composure. I shivered. My body felt it was at the edge
of an abyss. I struggled
with some mysterious but concrete piece of knowledge. It was as if I
were on the verge of being
89
shown something, and yet some stubborn part of me insisted on blowing a
cloud over it. The
struggle made me numb by degrees, until I could not feel my body. My
mouth was open and my
eyes were half closed. I had the feeling I could see my face getting
harder and harder until it was
the face of a dried corpse with the yellowish skin stuck tight to the
skull.
The next thing I felt was a jolt. Don Juan was standing by me holding
an empty bucket of
water. He had soaked me. I coughed and wiped the water from my face and
felt another cold
seizure in my back. I jumped up from the bench. Don Juan had poured
some water down my
neck.
There was a group of children looking at me and laughing. Don Juan
smiled at me. He held
my notebook and said that we had better go to my hotel so I could
change my clothes. He led me
out of the park. We stood on the curb for a moment before a cab came
along.
Hours later, after eating lunch and resting, don Juan and I sat on his
favorite bench in the park
by the church. In an oblique manner we got to the topic of my strange
reaction. He seemed to be
very cautious. He did not confront me directly with it.
"Things like that are known to happen," he said. "The nagual, once it
learns to surface, may
cause a great damage to the tonal by coming out without any control.
Your case is special,
though. You are given to indulging in such an exaggerated manner that
you would die and not
even mind it, or worse yet, not even be aware that you're dying."
I told him that my reaction began when he had asked me if I could feel
what my nagual had
done I thought I knew exactly what he was alluding to, but when I tried
to describe what it was, I
found I could not think clearly. I experienced a sensation of
lightheadedness, almost an
indifference, as if I did not really care about anything. Then that
sensation grew into a
mesmerizing concentration. It was as though all of me was slowly being
sucked out. What
attracted and trapped my attention was the clear sensation that a
portentous secret was about to be
revealed to me and I did not want anything to interfere with such a
revelation.
"What was going to be revealed to you was your death," don Juan said.
"That's the danger of
indulging. Especially for you, since you are naturally so exaggerated.
Your tonal is so given to
indulging that it threatens the totality of you. This is a terrible way
of being."
"What can I do?"
"Your tonal has to be convinced with reasons, your nagual with actions,
until one props the
other. As I have told you, the tonal rules, and yet it is very
vulnerable. The nagual, on the other
hand, never, or almost never, acts out; but when it does, it terrifies
the tonal.
"This morning your tonal got frightened and began to shrink by itself,
and then your nagual
began to take over.
"I had to borrow a bucket from one of the photographers in the park in
order to whip your
nagual like a bad dog back to its place. The tonal must be protected at
any cost. The crown has to
be taken away from it, but it must remain as the protected overseer.
"Any threat to the tonal always results in its death. And if the tonal
dies, so does the whole
man. Because of its inherent weakness the tonal is easily destroyed,
and thus one of the balancing
arts of the warrior is to make the nagual emerge in order to prop up
the tonal. I say it is an art,
because sorcerers know that only by boosting the tonal can the nagual
emerge. See what I mean?
That boosting is called personal power."
Don Juan stood up, stretched his arms and arched his back. I started to
stand up myself, but he
gently pushed me down.
"You must stay on this bench until twilight," he said. "I have to leave
right away. Genaro is
waiting for me in the mountains. So come to his house in three days and
we will meet there."
90
"What are we going to do at don Genaro's house?" I asked.
"Depending on whether you have enough power," he said, "Genaro may show
you the
nagual."
There was one more thing that I had to voice at that point. I had to
know whether his suit was
a shocking device for me alone or was it actually part of his life.
Never had any of his acts caused
so much havoc in me as his wearing a suit. It was not only the act in
itself that was so awesome to
me, but the fact that don Juan was elegant. His legs had a youthful
agility. It was as if wearing
shoes had shifted his point of balance and his steps were longer and
more firm than usual.
"Do you wear a suit all the time?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied with a charming smile. "I have others, but I didn't
want to wear a different
suit today, because it would've scared you even more."
I did not know what to think. I felt that I had arrived at the end of
my path. If don Juan could
wear a suit and be elegant in it, anything was possible.
He seemed to enjoy my confusion and laughed.
"I'm a stockholder," he said in a mysterious but unaffected tone and
walked away.
91
7. In Nagual's Time
The next morning, on Thursday, I asked a friend of mine to walk with me
from the door of the
office where don Juan had pushed me to the Lagunilla market. We took
the most direct route. It
took us thirty-five minutes. Once we arrived there, I tried to orient
myself. I failed. I walked into
a clothing store at the very corner of the wide avenue where we were
standing.
"Pardon me," I said to a young woman who was gently cleaning a hat with
a duster. "Where
are the stands of coins and secondhand books?"
"We don't have any," she said in a nasty tone.
"But I saw them, somewhere in this market, yesterday."
"No kidding," she said and walked behind the counter.
I ran after her and pleaded with her to tell me where they were. She
looked me up and down.
"You couldn't have seen them yesterday," she said. "Those stands are
assembled only on
Sunday, right here along this wall. We don't have them the rest of the
week."
"Only on Sunday?" I repeated mechanically.
"Yes. Only on Sunday. That's the way. The rest of the week they would
interfere with the
traffic."
She pointed to the wide avenue filled with cars.
I ran up a slope in front of don Genaro's house and saw don Juan and
don Genaro sitting on a
cleared area by the door. They smiled at me. There was such warmth and
innocence in their
smiles that my body experienced a state of immediate alarm. I
automatically slowed down to a
walk. I greeted them.
"How are you?" don Genaro asked me in such an affected tone that we all
laughed.
"He's in very good shape," don Juan interjected before I could answer.
"I can see that," don Genaro retorted. "Look at that double chin! And
look at those chunks of
bacon fat on the jowls!"
Don Juan held his stomach as he laughed.
"Your face is round," don Genaro went on. "What have you been doing?
Eating?"
Don Juan jokingly assured him that my life style required that I eat a
great deal. In a most
friendly way they teased me about my life, and then don Juan asked me
to sit down between
them. The sun had already set behind the huge range of mountains to the
west.
"Where's your famous notebook?" don Genaro asked me, and when I got it
out of my pocket
he yelled, "Yippee!" and took it from my hands.
Obviously he had observed me with great care and knew my mannerisms to
perfection. He
held the notebook with both hands and played with it nervously, as if
he did not know what to do
with it.
Twice he seemed to be on the verge of throwing it away but appeared to
contain himself.
Then he held it against his knees and pretended to write feverishly in
it, the way I do.
Don Juan laughed so hard that he was about to choke.
"What did you do after I left you?" don Juan asked after they had
quieted down.
"I went to the market on Thursday," I said.
"What were you doing there? Retracing your steps?" he retorted.
Don Genaro fell backwards and with his lips made the dry sound of a
head hitting the ground.
He looked at me askance and winked.
"I had to do it," I said. "And I found out that on weekdays there are
no stands that sell coins
and secondhand books."
92
Both of them laughed. Then don Juan said that asking questions was not
going to reveal
anything new.
"What really took place, don Juan?" I asked.
"Believe me, there is no way of knowing that," he said dryly. "In those
matters you and I are
on equal ground. My advantage over you at this moment is that I know
how to get to the nagual,
and you don't. But once I have gotten there I have no more advantage
and no more knowledge
than you."
"Did I really land in the market, don Juan?" I asked.
"Of course. I've told you, the nagual is at the warrior's command.
Isn't it so, Genaro?"
"Right!" don Genaro exclaimed in a booming voice and stood up in one
single motion. It was
as though his voice had pulled him from a lying position to a perfectly
vertical one.
Don Juan was practically rolling on the ground laughing. Don Genaro,
with a nonchalant air,
took a comical bow and said good-by.
"Genaro will see you tomorrow morning," don Juan said. "Now you must
sit here in total
silence."
We did not say another word. After hours of silence I fell asleep.
I looked at my watch. It was almost six in the morning. Don Juan
examined the solid mass of
heavy white clouds over the eastern horizon and concluded that it was
going to be an overcast
day. Don Genaro sniffed the air and added that it was also going to be
hot and windless.
"How far are we going?" I asked.
"To those eucalyptus trees over there," don Genaro replied, pointing to
what seemed to be a
grove of trees about a mile away.
When we reached the trees I realized that it was not a grove; the
eucalyptus had been planted
in straight lines in order to mark the boundaries of fields cultivated
with different crops. We
walked along the edge of a corn field, along a line of enormous trees,
thin and straight, over a
hundred feet high, and arrived at an empty field. I figured that the
crop must have just been
harvested. There were only the dried stalks and leaves of some plants I
did not recognize. I bent
over to pick up a leaf but don Genaro stopped me. He held my arm with
great force. I recoiled in
pain and then I noticed that he had only placed his fingers gently on
my arm.
He was definitely aware of what he had done and of what I was
experiencing. He swiftly
lifted his fingers off my arm and then again placed them gently on it.
He repeated it once more
and laughed like a delighted child when I winced. Then he turned his
profile to me. His aquiline
nose made him look like a bird, a bird with strange long white teeth.
In a soft voice don Juan told me not to touch anything. I asked him if
he knew what kind of
crop had been cultivated there. He seemed to be about to tell me, but
don Genaro interceded and
said that it was a field of worms.
Don Juan looked at me fixedly, without cracking a smile. Don Genaro's
meaningless answer
appeared to be a joke. I waited for a cue to start laughing, but they
just stared at me.
"A field of gorgeous worms," don Genaro said. "Yes, what was grown here
was the most
delightful worms you've ever seen."
He turned to don Juan. They looked at each other for an instant.
"Isn't it so?" he asked.
"Absolutely true," don Juan said, and turning to me he added in a soft
voice, "Genaro holds
the baton today; only he can tell what's what, so do exactly as he
says."
The idea that don Genaro had the control filled me with terror. I
turned to don Juan to tell him
about it; but before I had time to voice my words, don Genaro let out a
long formidable scream; a
93
yell so loud and frightening that I felt the back of my neck swell and
my hair flowing out as if a
wind were blowing it. I had an instant of complete disassociation and
would have remained glued
to the spot had it not been for don Juan, who with incredible speed and
control turned my body
around so my eyes could witness an inconceivable feat. Don Genaro was
standing horizontally,
about one hundred feet above the ground, on the trunk of a eucalyptus
tree which was perhaps
fifty yards away. That is, he was standing with his legs three feet
apart, perpendicular to the tree.
It was as if he had hooks on his shoes, and with them was capable of
defying gravity. His arms
were crossed over his chest and his back was turned to me.
I stared at him. I did not want to blink for fear of losing sight of
him. I made a quick judgment
and concluded that if I could maintain him within my field of vision I
might detect a clue, a
movement, a gesture, or anything that would help me understand what was
taking place.
I felt don Juan's head next to my right ear and I heard him whisper
that any attempt to explain
was useless and idiotic. I heard him repeat, "Push your belly down,
down."
It was a technique he had taught me, years before, to use in moments of
great danger, fear, or
stress. It consisted of pushing the diaphragm down while taking four
sharp gasps of air through
the mouth, followed by four deep inhalations and exhalations through
the nose. He had explained
that the gasps of air had to be felt as jolts in the middle part of the
body, and that keeping the
hands tightly clasped, covering the navel, gave strength to the
midsection and helped to control
the gasps and the deep inhalations, which had to be held for a count of
eight as one pressed the
diaphragm down. The exhalations were done twice through the nose and
twice through the mouth
in a slow or accelerated fashion, depending on one's preference.
I automatically obeyed don Juan. I did not dare, however, to take my
eyes away from don
Genaro. As I kept on breathing, my body relaxed and I was aware that
don Juan was twisting my
legs. Apparently when he had turned me around my right foot had caught
in a clump of dirt and
my leg was uncomfortably bent. When he straightened me out I realized
that the shock of seeing
don Genaro standing on the trunk of a tree had made me oblivious to my
discomfort.
Don Juan whispered in my ear that I should not stare at don Genaro. I
heard him say, "Blink,
blink."
For a moment I felt reluctant. Don Juan commanded me again. I was
convinced that the whole
affair was somehow linked to me as the onlooker, and if I, as the sole
witness of don Genaro's
deed, had stopped looking at him he would have fallen to the ground or
perhaps the whole scene
would have vanished.
After an excruciatingly long period of immobility, don Genaro swiveled
on his heels, fortyfive
degrees to his right, and began to walk up the trunk. His body
shivered. I saw him take one
small step after another until he had taken eight. He even circumvented
a branch. Then, with his
arms still crossed over his chest, he sat down on the trunk with his
back to me. His legs dangled
as if he were sitting on a chair, as if gravity had no effect on him.
He then sort of walked on his
seat, downwards. He reached a branch that was parallel to his body and
leaned on it with his left
arm and his head for a few seconds; he seemed to be leaning more for
dramatic effect than for
support. He then kept on moving on his seat, inching his way from the
trunk onto the branch,
until he had changed his position and was sitting as one might normally
sit on a branch.
Don Juan giggled. I had a horrible taste in my mouth. I wanted to turn
round and face don
Juan, who was slightly behind me to my right, but I did not dare miss
any of don Genaro's
actions.
He dangled his feet for a while, then crossed them and swung them
gently, and finally he
slipped upwards back onto the trunk.
Don Juan took my head gently in both hands and twisted my neck to the
left until my line of
94
vision was parallel to the tree rather than perpendicular to it.
Looking at don Genaro from that
angle, he did not appear to be defying gravity. He was simply sitting
on the trunk of a tree. I
noticed then that if I stared and did not blink, the background became
vague and diffuse, and the
clarity of don Genaro's body became more intense; his shape became
dominant, as if nothing else
existed.
Don Genaro swiftly slid downward back onto the branch. He sat dangling
his feet, like on a
trapeze. Looking at him from a twisted perspective made both positions,
especially sitting on the
tree trunk, seem feasible.
Don Juan shifted my head to the right until it was resting on my
shoulder. Don Genaro's
position on the branch seemed perfectly normal, but when he moved onto
the trunk again, I could
not make the necessary perceptual adjustment and I saw him as if he
were upside down, with his
head towards the ground.
Don Genaro moved back and forth various times, and don Juan shifted my
head from side to
side every time don Genaro moved. The result of their manipulations was
that I completely lost
track of my normal perspective, and without it don Genaro's actions
were not as awesome.
Don Genaro remained on the branch for a long time. Don Juan
straightened my neck and
whispered that don Genaro was about to descend. I heard him whisper in
an imperative tone,
"Press down, down."
I was in the middle of a fast exhalation when don Genaro's body seemed
to be transfixed by
some sort of tension; it glowed, became lax, swung backwards, and hung
by the knees for a
moment. His legs seemed to be so flaccid that they could not stay bent
and he fell to the ground.
At the moment he began his downward fall, I also had the sensation of
falling through endless
space. My whole body experienced a painful and at the same time
extremely pleasurable anguish;
an anguish of such intensity and duration that my legs could no longer
support the weight of my
body and I fell down on the soft dirt. I could barely move my arms to
buffer my fall. I was
breathing so heavily that the soft dirt got into my nostrils and made
them itch. I tried to get up;
my muscles seemed to have lost their strength.
Don Juan and don Genaro came and stood over me. I heard their voices as
if they were quite a
distance from me, and yet I felt them pulling me. They must have lifted
me up, each holding one
of my arms and one of my legs, and carried me over a short distance. I
was perfectly aware of the
uncomfortable position of my neck and head, which hung limp. My eyes
were open. I could see
the ground and tufts of weeds passing under me. Finally, I had a cold
seizure. Water entered into
my mouth and nose and made me cough. My arms and legs moved
frantically. I began to swim
but the water was not deep enough and I found myself standing up in the
shallow river where
they had dumped me.
Don Juan and don Genaro laughed themselves silly. Don Juan rolled up
his pants and came
over closer to me; he looked me in the eye and said that I was not
complete yet and pushed me
gently back into the water. My body did not offer any resistance. I did
not want to be dunked
again but there was no way of connecting my volition to my muscles and
I crumbled backwards.
The coldness was even more intense. I quickly jumped up and scurried
out on the opposite bank
by mistake. Don Juan and don Genaro yelled and whistled and threw rocks
into the bushes ahead
of me, as though they were corralling a steer that was running astray.
I crossed back over the river
and sat on a rock next to them. Don Genaro handed me my clothes and
then I noticed that I was
naked, although I could not remember when or how I got my clothes off.
I was dripping wet and
did not want to put them on right away. Don Juan turned to don Genaro
and in a booming tone
said, "For heaven's sake, give the man a towel!" It took me a couple of
seconds to realize the
absurdity.
95
I felt very good. In fact, I was so happy that I did not want to talk.
I had the certainty,
however, that if I showed my euphoria they would have dumped me into
the water again.
Don Genaro watched me. His eyes had the glint of a wild animal's. They
pierced through me.
"Good for you," don Juan said to me all of a sudden. "You're contained
now, but down by the
eucalyptus trees you indulged like a son of a bitch."
I wanted to laugh hysterically. Don Juan's words seemed so utterly
funny that I had to make a
supreme effort to contain myself. And then some part of me flashed a
command. An
uncontrollable itching in the midsection of my body made me take off my
clothes and plunge
back into the water. I stayed in the river for about five minutes. The
coldness restored my sense
of sobriety. When I got out I was myself again.
"Good show," don Juan said, tapping me on the shoulder.
They led me back to the eucalyptus trees. As we walked, don Juan
explained that my tonal
had been dangerously vulnerable, and that the incongruity of don
Genaro's acts seemed to be too
much for it. He said that they had decided not to tamper with it any
more and go back to don
Genaro's house, but the fact that I knew I had to plunge myself into
the river again had changed
everything. He did not say, however, what they intended to do.
We stood in the middle of the field, on the same spot we had been
before. Don Juan was to my
right and don Genaro to my left. They both stood with their muscles
tensed, in a state of alertness.
They maintained that tenseness for about ten minutes. I shifted my eyes
from one to the other. I
thought that don Juan would cue me on what to do. I was right. At one
moment he relaxed his
body and kicked some hard clumps of dirt. Without looking at me, he
said, "I think we'd better
go." I automatically reasoned that don Genaro must have had the
intention of giving me another
demonstration of the nagual but had decided not to. I felt relieved. I
waited another moment for a
final confirmation. Don Genaro also eased off and then both of them
took one step forward. I
knew then that we were through there. But at the very instant I
loosened up, don Genaro again let
out his incredible yell.
I began to breathe frantically. I looked around. Don Genaro had
disappeared. Don Juan was
standing in front of me. His body convulsed with laughter. He turned to
me.
"I'm sorry," he said in a whisper. "There's no other way."
I wanted to ask about don Genaro, but I felt that if I did not keep on
breathing and pressing
down on my diaphragm I would die. Don Juan pointed with his chin to a
place behind me.
Without moving my feet, I began to turn my head over my left shoulder.
But before I could see
what he was pointing at, don Juan jumped and stopped me. The force of
his leap and the speed
with which he grabbed me made me lose my balance. As I fell on my back
I had the sensation
that my startled reaction had been to grab on to don Juan and
consequently I dragged him with
me to the ground. But when I looked up, the impressions of my tactile
and visual senses were in
total disaccord. I saw don Juan standing over me laughing, while my
body felt the unmistakable
weight and pressure of another body on top of me, almost pinning me
down.
Don Juan extended his hand and helped me get up. My bodily sensation
was that he was
lifting two bodies. He smiled knowingly and whispered that one should
never turn to one's left
when facing the nagual. He said that the nagual was deadly and there
was no need to make the
risks more dangerous than they already were. He then gently turned me
around and made me face
an enormous eucalyptus tree. It was perhaps the oldest tree around. Its
trunk was nearly twice as
thick as any of the others. He pointed with his eyes to the top. Don
Genaro was perched on a
branch. He was facing me. I could see his eyes like two huge mirrors
reflecting light. I did not
want to look but don Juan insisted that I should not move my eyes away.
In a very forceful
whisper he ordered me to blink, and not to succumb to fright or
indulgence.
96
I noticed that if I blinked steadily don Genaro's eyes were not so
awesome. It was only when I
stared that the glare of his eyes became maddening.
He squatted on the branch for a long time. Then, without moving his
body at all, he jumped to
the ground and landed, in the same squatting position, a couple of
yards from where I was. I
witnessed the complete sequence of his jump, and I knew that I had
perceived more than my eyes
had allowed me to catch. Don Genaro had not really jumped. Something
had pushed him as if
from behind and had made him glide on a parabolic course. The branch
where he had been
perched was possibly a hundred feet high, and the tree was located
about a hundred and fifty feet
away from me; thus, his body had to trace a parabola to land where it
did. But the force needed to
cover that distance was not the product of don Genaro's muscles; his
body was "blown" away
from the branch to the ground. At one point I was able to see the soles
of his shoes and his rear as
his body described the parabola. Then he landed gently, although his
weight crumbled the hard
clumps of dried dirt and even raised a bit of dust.
Don Juan giggled behind me. Don Genaro stood up as if nothing had
happened and tugged the
sleeve of my shirt to give me a signal that we were leaving.
No one spoke on the way to don Genaro's house. I felt lucid and
composed. A couple of times
don Juan stopped and examined my eyes by staring into them. He seemed
satisfied. As soon as
we arrived, don Genaro went behind the house. It was still early in the
morning. Don Juan sat on
the floor by the door and pointed to a place for me to sit. I was
exhausted. I lay down and went
out like a light.
I woke up when don Juan shook me. I tried to look at the time. My watch
was missing. Don
Juan pulled it from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It was around
1:00 P.M. I looked up and
our eyes met.
"No. There's no explanation," he said, turning away from me. "The
nagual is only for
witnessing."
I went around the house looking for don Genaro; he was not there. I
came back to the front.
Don Juan had made me something to eat. After I had finished eating he
began to talk.
"When one is dealing with the nagual, one should never look into it
directly," he said. "You
were peering at it this morning, and therefore you were sapped. The
only way to look at the
nagual is as if it were a common affair. One must blink in order to
break the fixation. Our eyes
are the eyes of the tonal, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say
that our eyes have been
trained by the tonal, therefore the tonal claims them. One of the
sources of your bafflement and
discomfort is that your tonal doesn't let go of your eyes. The day it
does, your nagual will have
won a great battle. Your obsession or, better yet, everyone's obsession
is to arrange the world
according to the tonal's rules; so every time we are confronted with
the nagual, we go out of our
way to make our eyes stiff and intransigent. I must appeal to the part
of your tonal which
understands this dilemma and you must make an effort to free your eyes.
The point is to convince
the tonal that there are other worlds that can pass in front of the
same windows. The nagual
showed you that this morning. So, let your eyes be free; let them be
true windows. The eyes can
be the windows to peer into boredom or to peek into that infinity."
Don Juan made a sweeping arc with his left arm to point all around us.
There was a glint in his
eyes, and his smile was at once frightening and disarming.
"How can I do that?" I asked.
"I say that it is a very simple matter. Perhaps I say it is simple
because I've been doing it for so
long. All you have to do is to set up your intent as a customs house.
Whenever you are in the
world of the tonal, you should be an impeccable tonal; no time for
irrational crap. But whenever
97
you are in the world of the nagual, you should also be impeccable; no
time for rational crap. For
the warrior, intent is the gate in between. It closes completely behind
him when he goes either
way.
"Another thing one should do when facing the nagual is to shift the
line of the eyes from time
to time, in order to break the spell of the nagual. Changing the
position of the eyes always eases
the burden of the tonal. This morning I noticed that you were extremely
vulnerable and I changed
the position of your head. If you are in a pinch like that you should
be able to shift by yourself.
This shifting should be done only as a relief, though, not as another
way of palisading yourself to
safeguard the order of the tonal. My bet would be that you would strive
to use this technique to
hide the rationality of your tonal behind it, and thus believe that
you're saving it from extinction.
The flaw of your reasoning is that nobody wants or seeks the extinction
of the tonal's rationality.
That fear is ill founded.
"There is nothing else I can tell you, except that you must follow
every movement that Genaro
makes, without draining yourself. You are testing now whether or not
your tonal is crammed with
nonessentials. If there are too many unnecessary items on your island
you won't be able to sustain
the encounter with the nagual."
"What would happen to me?"
"You may die. No one is capable of surviving a deliberate encounter
with the nagual without a
long training. It takes years to prepare the tonal for such an
encounter. Ordinarily, if an average
man comes face to face with the nagual the shock would be so great that
he would die. The goal
of a warrior's training then is not to teach him to hex or to charm,
but to prepare his tonal not to
crap out. A most difficult accomplishment. A warrior must be taught to
be impeccable and
thoroughly empty before he could even conceive witnessing the nagual.
"In your case, for instance, you have to stop calculating. What you
were doing this morning
was absurd. You call it explaining. I call it a sterile and boring
insistence of the tonal to have
everything under its control. Whenever it doesn't succeed, there is a
moment of bafflement and
then the tonal opens itself to death. What a prick! It would rather
kill itself than relinquish
control. And yet there is very little we can do to change that
condition."
"How did you change it yourself, don Juan?"
"The island of the tonal has to be swept clean and maintained clean.
That's the only alternative
that a warrior has. A clean island offers no resistance; it is as if
there were nothing there."
He went around the house and sat down on a big smooth rock. From there
one could look into
a deep ravine. He signaled me to sit down next to him.
"Can you tell me, don Juan, what else we are going to do today?" I
asked.
"We aren't going to do anything. That is, you and I will only be the
witnesses. Your benefactor
is Genaro."
I thought I had misunderstood him in my eagerness to take notes. At the
beginning stages of
my apprenticeship, don Juan himself had introduced the term
"benefactor." My impression had
always been that he himself was my benefactor.
Don Juan had stopped talking and was staring at me. I made a quick
assessment and my
conclusion was that he must have meant that don Genaro was something
like the star performer
on that occasion. Don Juan giggled, as if he were reading my thoughts.
"Genaro is your benefactor," he repeated.
"But you are, aren't you?" I asked in a frantic tone.
"I'm the one who helped you sweep the island of the tonal" he said.
"Genaro has two
apprentices, Pablito and Nestor. He is helping them sweep the island;
but I will show them the
nagual. I will be their benefactor. Genaro is only their teacher. In
these matters one can either talk
98
or act; one cannot do both with the same person. One either takes the
island of the tonal or one
takes the nagual. In your case my duty has been to work with your
tonal.''
As don Juan spoke I had an attack of terror so intense that I was about
to get ill, I had the
feeling that he was going to leave me with don Genaro and that was a
most dreadful scheme to
me.
Don Juan laughed and laughed as I voiced my fears.
"The same thing happens to Pablito," he said. "The moment he sets eyes
on me he gets ill. The
other day he walked into the house when Genaro was gone. I was alone
here and I had left my
sombrero by the door. Pablito saw it and his tonal became so frightened
that he actually shit in
his pants."
I could easily understand and project into Pablito's feelings. When I
considered the matter
carefully, I had to admit that don Juan was terrifying. I had learned,
however, to feel comfortable
with him. I experienced with him a familiarity born out of our long
association.
"I'm not going to leave you with Genaro," he said, still laughing. "I'm
the one who takes care
of your tonal. Without it you're dead."
"Has every apprentice a teacher and a benefactor?" I asked to ease my
turmoil.
"No, not every apprentice. But some do."
"Why do some of them have both a teacher and a benefactor?"
"When an ordinary man is ready, power provides him with a teacher, and
he becomes an
apprentice. When the apprentice is ready, power provides him with a
benefactor, and he becomes
a sorcerer."
"What makes a man ready, so that power can provide him with a teacher?"
"No one knows that. We are only men. Some of us are men who have
learned to see and use
the nagual, but nothing that we may have gained in the course of our
lives can reveal to us the
designs of power. Thus, not every apprentice has a benefactor. Power
decides that."
I asked him if he himself had had a teacher and a benefactor, and for
the first time in thirteen
years he freely talked about them. He said that both his teacher and
his benefactor were from
central Mexico. I had always considered that information about don Juan
to be of value for my
anthropological research, but somehow at the moment of his revelation
it did not matter.
Don Juan glanced at me. I though it was a look of concern. He then
abruptly changed the
subject and asked me to recount every detail of what I had experienced
in the morning.
"A sudden fright always shrinks the tonal" he said as a comment on my
description of how I
felt when don Genaro screamed. "The problem here is not to let the
tonal shrink itself out of the
picture. A grave issue for a warrior is to know exactly when to allow
his tonal to shrink and when
to stop it. This is a great art. A warrior must struggle like a demon
to shrink his tonal; and yet at
the very moment the tonal shrinks, the warrior must reverse all that
struggle to immediately halt
that shrinking."
"But by doing that isn't he reverting back to what he already was?" I
asked.
"No. After the tonal shrinks, the warrior is closing the gate from the
other side. As long as his
tonal is unchallenged and his eyes are tuned only for the tonal's
world, the warrior is on the safe
side of the fence. He's on familiar ground and knows all the rules. But
when his tonal shrinks, he
is on the windy side, and that opening must be shut tight immediately,
or he would be swept
away. And this is not just a way of talking. Beyond the gate of the
tonal's eyes the wind rages. I
mean a real wind. No metaphor. A wind that can blow one's life away. In
fact, that is the wind
that blows all living things on this earth. Years ago I acquainted you
with that wind. You took it
as a joke, though."
He was referring to a time when he had taken me to the mountains and
explained certain
99
properties of the wind. I had never thought it was a joke, however.
"It's not important whether you took it seriously or not," he said
after listening to my protests.
"As a rule the tonal must defend itself, at any cost, every time it is
threatened; so it is of no real
consequence how the tonal reacts in order to accomplish its defense.
The only important matter is
that the tonal of a warrior must become acquainted with other
alternatives. What a teacher aims
for, in this case, is the total weight of those possibilities. It is
the weight of those new possibilities
which helps to shrink the tonal. By the same token, it is the same
weight which helps stop the
tonal from shrinking out of the picture."
He signaled me to proceed with my narrative of the events of the
morning, and he interrupted
me when I came to the part where don Genaro slid back and forth from
the tree trunk to the
branch.
"The nagual can perform extraordinary things," he said. "Things that do
not seem possible,
things that are unthinkable for the tonal. But the extraordinary thing
is that the performer has no
way of knowing how those things happen. In other words, Genaro doesn't
know how he does
those things; he only knows that he does them. The secret of a sorcerer
is that he knows how to
get to the nagual, but once he gets there, your guess is as good as his
as to what takes place."
"But what does one feel while doing those things?"
"One feels like one is doing something."
"Would don Genaro feel like he's walking up the trunk of a tree?"
Don Juan looked at me for a moment, then he turned his head away.
"No," he said in a forceful whisper. "Not in the way you mean it."
He did not say anything else. I was practically holding my breath,
waiting for his explanation.
Finally I had to ask, "But what does he feel?"
"I can't say, not because it is a personal matter, but because there is
no way of describing it."
"Come on," I coaxed him. "There is nothing that one can't explain or
elucidate with words. I
believe that even if it's not possible to describe something directly,
one can allude to it, beat
around the bush."
Don Juan laughed. His laughter was friendly and kind. And yet there was
a touch of mockery
and sheer mischievoiisness in it.
"I have to change the subject," he said. "Suffice it to say that the
nagual was aimed at you this
morning. Whatever Genaro did was a mixture of you and him. His nagual
was tempered by your
tonal."
I insisted on probing and asked him, "When you're showing the nagual to
Pablito, what do
you feel?"
"I can't explain that," he said in a soft voice. "And not because I
don't want to, but simply
because I can't. My tonal stops there."
I did not want to press him any further. We remained silent for a
while, then he began to talk
again.
"Let's say that a warrior learns to tune his will, to direct it to a
pinpoint, to focus it wherever he
wants. It is as if his will, which comes from the midsection of his
body, is one single luminous
fiber, a fiber that he can direct at any conceivable place. That fiber
is the road to the nagual. Or I
could also say that the warrior sinks into the nagual through that
single fiber.
"Once he has sunk, the expression of the nagual is a matter of his
personal temperament. If the
warrior is funny the nagual is funny. If the warrior is morbid the
nagual is morbid. If the warrior
is mean the nagual is mean.
"Genaro always cracks me up because he's one of the most delightful
creatures alive. I never
know what he's going to come up with. That to me is the ultimate
essence of sorcery. Genaro is
100
such a fluid warrior that the slightest focusing of his will makes his
nagual act in incredible
ways."
"Did you yourself observe what don Genaro was doing in the trees?" I
asked.
"No, I just knew, because I saw, that the nagual was in the trees. The
rest of the show was for
you alone."
"Do you mean, don Juan, that, like the time when you pushed me and I
ended up in the
market, you were not with me?"
"It was something like that. When one meets the nagual face to face,
one always has to be
alone. I was around only to protect your tonal. That is my charge."
Don Juan said that my tonal was nearly blasted to pieces when don
Genaro descended from
the tree; not so much because of any inherent quality of danger in the
nagual, but because my
tonal indulged in its bewilderment. He said that one of the aims of the
warrior's training was to
cut the bewilderment of the tonal, until the warrior was so fluid that
he could admit everything
without admitting anything.
When I described don Genaro's leap up to the tree and his leap down
from it, don Juan said
that the yell of a warrior was one of the most important issues of
sorcery, and that don Genaro
was capable of focusing on his yell, using it as a vehicle.
"You are right," he said. "Genaro was pulled partly by his yell and
partly by the tree. That was
true seeing on your part. That was a true picture of the nagual.
Genaro's will was focused on the
yell and his personal touch made the tree pull the nagual. The lines
went both ways from Genaro
to the tree and from the tree to Genaro.
"What you should have seen when Genaro jumped from the tree was that he
was focusing on a
spot in front of you and then the tree pushed him. But it only seemed
to be a push; in essence it
was more like being released by the tree. The tree released the nagual
and the nagual came back
to the world of the tonal on the spot he focused on.
"The second time that Genaro came down from the tree your tonal was not
so bewildered; you
were not indulging so hard and therefore you were not as sapped as you
were the first time."
Around four in the afternoon don Juan stopped our conversation.
"We are going back to the eucalyptus trees," he said. "The nagual is
waiting for us there."
"Aren't we risking being seen by people?" I asked.
"No. The nagual will keep everything suspended," he said.
101
8. The Whispering of The
Nagual
As we approached the eucalyptuses I saw don Genaro sitting on a tree
stump. He waved his
hand, smiling. We joined him.
There was a flock of crows in the trees. They were cawing as if
something were frightening
them. Don Genaro said that we had to remain motionless and quiet until
the crows had calmed
down.
Don Juan leaned his back against a tree and signaled me to do the same
on a tree next to him a
few feet away to his left. We were both facing don Genaro, who was
three or four yards in front
of us.With a subtle movement of his eyes, don Juan gave me a cue to
rearrange my feet. He was
standing firmly, with his feet slightly apart, touching the tree trunk
only with the upper part of his
shoulder blades and with the very back of his head. His arms hung at
his sides.
We stood like that for perhaps an hour. I kept a close vigil on both of
them, especially on don
Juan. At a given moment he slid gently-down the tree trunk and sat
down, still keeping the same
areas of his body in contact with the tree. His knees were raised and
he rested his arms on them. I
imitated his movements. My legs had become extremely tired and the
change of position made
me feel quite comfortable.
The crows had stopped cawing by degrees, until there was not a single
sound in the field. The
silence was more unnerving to me than the noise of the crows.
Don Juan spoke to me in a quiet tone. He said that the twilight was my
best hour. He looked at
the sky. It must have been after six.
It had been an overcast day and I had had no way of checking the
position of the sun. I heard
the distant cries of geese and perhaps turkeys. But in the field with
eucalyptus trees there was no
noise. There had been no whistling of birds or sounds of large insects
for a long time.
The bodies of don Juan and don Genaro had been in perfect immobility,
as far as I could
judge, except for a few seconds when they shifted their weight in order
to rest.
After don Juan and I had slid to the ground, don Genaro made a sudden
motion. He lifted his
feet up and squatted on the stump. He then turned forty-five degrees,
and I was looking at his left
profile. I stared at don Juan in search of a clue. He jutted his chin;
it was a command to look at
don Genaro.
A monstrous agitation began to overtake me. I was incapable of
containing myself. My bowels
were loose. I could absolutely feel what Pablito must have felt when he
saw don Juan's sombrero.
I experienced such intestinal distress that I had to get up and run to
the bushes. I heard them
howling with laughter.
I did not dare to return to where they were. I hesitated for a while; I
figured that the spell must
have been broken by my sudden outburst. I did not have to ponder for
too long; don Juan and don
Genaro came over to where I was. They flanked me and we walked to
another field. We stopped
at the very center of it and I recognized that we had been there in the
morning.
Don Juan spoke to me. He told me that I had to be fluid and silent and
should stop my internal
dialogue. I listened attentively. Don Genaro must have been aware that
all my concentration was
focused on don Juan's admonitions and he used that moment to do what he
had done in the
morning; he again let out his maddening scream. He caught me unaware
but not unprepared. I
almost immediately recuperated my balance by breathing. The jolt was
terrifying, yet it did not
have a prolonged effect on me and I was capable of following don
Genaro's movements with my
eyes. I saw him leap to a low branch on a tree. As I followed his
course for a distance of eighty to
ninety feet, my eyes experienced an extravagant distortion. It was not
that he leaped by means of
102
the spring action of his muscles; he rather glided through the air,
catapulted in part by his
formidable yell, and pulled by some vague lines emanating from the
tree. It was as if the tree had
sipped him through its lines.
Don Genaro stayed perched on the low branch for a moment. His left
profile was turned to
me. He began to perform a series of strange movements. His head
wobbled, his body shivered.
He hid his head various times in between his knees. The more he moved
and fretted the more
difficult it was for me to focus my eyes on his body. He seemed to be
dissolving. I blinked
desperately and then I shifted my line of vision by twisting my head to
the right and to the left as
don Juan had taught me. From my left perspective I saw don Genaro's
body as I had never seen it
before. It was as if he had put on a disguise. He had a furry suit on;
the hair was the color of a
Siamese cat, light buff-brown, with touches of dark chocolate brown on
the legs and the back; it
had a long thick tail. Don Genaro's costume made him look like a furry
brown long-legged
crocodile sitting on a branch. I could not see his head or his features.
I straightened my head to a normal position. The vision of don Genaro
in disguise remained
unchanged.
Don Genaro's arms shivered. He stood up on the branch, sort of stooped
over, and leaped
towards the ground. The branch was perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high.
As far as I could judge, it
was an ordinary leap of a man wearing a costume. I saw don Genaro's
body almost touching the
ground and then the thick tail of his costume vibrated and instead of
landing he took off, as if
powered with a silent jet engine. He went over the trees and then
glided almost to the ground. He
did that over and over. At times he would hold on to a branch and swing
around a tree, or curl
like an eel between branches. And then he would glide and circle around
us, or flap his arms as he
touched the very tops of the trees with his stomach.
Don Genaro's cavorting filled me with awe. My eyes followed him and two
or three times I
clearly perceived that he was using some brilliant lines, as if they
were pulleys, to glide from one
place to another. Then he went over the tops of the trees towards the
south and disappeared
behind them. I tried to anticipate the place where he would appear
again, but he did not show up
at all.
I noticed then that I was lying on my back and yet I had not been aware
of a change in
perspective. I had thought all along that I was looking at don Genaro
from a standing position.
Don Juan helped me to sit up and then I saw don Genaro walking towards
us with a
nonchalant air. He smiled coyly and asked me if I had liked his flying.
I attempted to say
something but I was speechless.
Don Genaro exchanged a strange look with don Juan and adopted a squat
position again. He
leaned over and whispered something in my left ear. I heard him say,
"Why don't you come and
fly with me?" He repeated it five or six times.
Don Juan came towards me and whispered in my right ear, "Don't talk.
Just follow Genaro."
Don Genaro made me squat and whispered to me again. I heard him with
crystal clear
precision. He repeated the statement perhaps ten times. He said, "Trust
the nagual. The nagual
will take you."
Then don Juan whispered in my right ear another statement. He said,
"Change your feelings."
I could hear both of them talking to me at once, but I could also hear
them individually. Every
one of don Genaro's statements had to do with the general context of
gliding through the air. The
statements that he repeated dozens of times seemed to be those that
became engraved in my
memory. Don Juan's words, on the other hand, had to do with specific
commands, which he
repeated countless times. The effect of that dual whispering was most
extraordinary. It was as if
the sound of their individual words were splitting me in half. Finally
the abyss between my two
103
ears was so wide that I lost all sense of unity. There was something
that was undoubtedly me, but
it was not solid. It was rather like a glowing fog, a dark yellow mist
that had feelings.
Don Juan told me that he was going to mold me for flying. The sensation
I had then was that
the words were like pliers that twisted and molded my "feelings."
Don Genaro's words were an invitation to follow him. I felt I wanted
to, but I could not. The
split was so great that I was incapacitated. Then I heard the same
short statements repeated
endlessly by both of them; things like "Look at that magnificent flying
shape." "Leap, leap."
"Your legs will reach the treetops." "The eucalyptuses are like green
dots." "The worms are
lights."
Something in me must have ceased at a given moment; perhaps my
awareness of being talked
to. I sensed that don Genaro was still with me, yet from the point of
view of my perception I
could only distinguish an enormous mass of the most extraordinary
lights. At times their glare
diminished and at times the lights became intense. I was also
experiencing movement. The effect
was like being pulled by a vacuum that never let me stop. Whenever my
motion seemed to
diminish and I could actually focus my awareness on the lights, the
vacuum would pull me away
again.
At one moment, between being pulled back and forth, I experienced the
ultimate confusion.
The world around me, whatever it was, was coming and going at the same
time, thus the vacuumlike
effect. I could see two separate worlds; one that was going away from
me and the other that
was coming closer to me. I did not realize this as one ordinarily
would; that is, I did not become
aware of it as something that had thus far been unrevealed. I rather
had two realizations without
the unifying conclusion.
After that my perceptions became dull. They either lacked precision, or
they were too many
and I had no way of sorting them. The next batch of discernible
apperceptions were a series of
sounds that happened at the end of a long tubelike formation. The tube
was myself and the sounds
were don Juan and don Genaro, again talking to me through each of my
ears. The more they
talked the shorter the tube became until the sounds were in a range I
recognized. That is to say,
the sounds of don Juan and don Genaro's words reached my normal range
of perception; the
sounds were first recognizable as noises, then as words yelled, and
finally as words whispered in
my ears.
I next noticed things of the familiar world. I was apparently lying
face down. I could
distinguish clumps of dirt, small rocks, dried leaves. And then I
became aware of the field of
eucalyptus trees.
Don Juan and don Genaro were standing by me. It was still light. I felt
that I had to get into
the water in order to consolidate myself. I walked to the river, took
off my clothes and stayed in
the cold water long enough to restore my perceptual balance.
Don Genaro left as soon as we arrived at his house. He casually patted
me on the shoulder as
he was leaving. I jumped away in a reflex reaction. I thought that his
touch was going to be
painful; to my amazement it was simply a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Don Juan and don Genaro laughed like two kids celebrating a prank.
"Don't be so jumpy," don Genaro said. "The nagual is not after you all
the time."
He smacked his lips as though disapproving my overreaction, and with an
air of candor and
comradeship he extended his arms. I embraced him. He patted my back in
a most friendly warm
gesture.
"You must be concerned with the nagual only at certain moments," he
said. "The rest of the
time you and I are like all the other people on this earth."
104
He faced don Juan and smiled at him.
"Isn't it so, Juancho?" he asked, emphasizing the word Juancho, a funny
nickname for Juan.
"That's so, Gerancho," don Juan answered, making up the word Gerancho.
They both had an explosion of laughter.
"I must warn you," don Juan said to me, "you have to exert the most
demanding vigil to be
sure when a man is a nagual and when a man is simply a man. You may die
if you come into
direct physical contact with the nagual"
Don Juan turned to don Genaro and with a beaming smile asked, "Isn't it
so, Gerancho?"
"That's so, absolutely so, Juancho," don Genaro replied, and both of
them laughed.
Their childlike mirth was very moving to me. The events of the day had
been exhausting and I
was very emotional. A wave of self-pity engulfed me. I was about to
weep as I kept on repeating
to myself that whatever they had done to me was irreversible and most
likely injurious. Don Juan
seemed to be reading my thoughts and shook his head in a gesture of
disbelief. He chuckled. I
made an effort to stop my internal dialogue, and my self-pity vanished.
"Genaro is very warm," don Juan commented when don Genaro had left.
"The design of
power was that you found a gentle benefactor."
I did not know what to say. The idea that don Genaro was my benefactor
intrigued me no end.
I wanted don Juan to tell me more about it. He did not seem inclined to
talk. He looked at the sky
and at the top of the dark silhouette of some trees at the side of the
house. He sat down with his
back against a thick forked pole, planted almost in front of the door,
and told me to sit next to him
to his left.
I sat by him. He pulled me closer by the arm until I was touching him.
He said that that time
of the night was dangerous for me, especially on that occasion. In a
very calm voice he gave me a
set of instructions: We were not to move from the spot until he saw fit
to do so; we were to keep
on talking, on an even keel, without long interruptions; and I had to
breathe and blink as if I were
facing the nagual.
"Is the nagual around here?" I asked.
"Of course," he said and chuckled.
I practically huddled against don Juan. He began to talk and actually
solicited any kind of
question from me. He even handed me my notebook and pencil as if I
could write in the darkness.
His contention was that I needed to be as calm and normal as possible
and there could be no
better way of fortifying my tonal than through taking notes. He put the
whole matter on a very
compelling level; he said that if taking notes was my predilection,
then I should be able to do it in
complete darkness. There was a tone of challenge in his voice when he
said that I could turn the
taking of notes into a warrior's task, in which case the darkness would
be no obstacle.
Somehow, he must have convinced me, for I managed to scribble down
parts of our
conversation. The main topic was don Genaro as my benefactor. I was
curious to know when don
Genaro had become my benefactor, and don Juan coaxed me to remember a
supposedly
extraordinary event that had happened the day I had met don Genaro, and
which served as a
proper omen. I could not recollect anything of the sort. I began to
recount the experience; as far
as I could remember it was a most unobtrusive and casual meeting, which
took place in the spring
of 1968. Don Juan stopped me.
"If you're dumb enough not to remember," he said, "we'd better leave it
that way. A warrior
follows the dictums of power. You will remember it when it becomes
necessary."
Don Juan said that having a benefactor was a most difficult matter. He
used as an example the
case of his own apprentice Eligio, who had been with him for many
years. He said that Eligio had
been unable to find a benefactor. I asked him if Eligio would
eventually find one; he answered
105
that there was no way of predicting the quirks of power. He reminded me
that once, years before,
we had found a group of young Indians roaming around the desert in
northern Mexico. He said
that he saw that none of them had a benefactor, and that the general
surroundings and the mood
of the moment were just right for him to give them a hand, by showing
them the nagual. He was
talking about one night when four young men sat by a fire while don
Juan put on what I thought
to be a spectacular show in which he apparently appeared to each of us
in a different guise.
"Those guys knew a great deal," he said. "You were the only greenhorn
among them."
"What happened to them afterwards?" I asked.
"Some of them found a benefactor," he replied.
Don Juan said that it was the duty of a benefactor to deliver his ward
to power, and that the
benefactor imparted to the neophyte his personal touch, as much if not
more so than the teacher.
During a short pause in our talk I heard a strange rasping noise at the
hack of the house. Don
Juan held me down; I had almost stood up as a reaction to it. Before
the noise happened, our
conversation had been a matter of course for me. But when the pause
occurred, and there was a
moment of silence, the strange noise popped through it. At that instant
I had the certainty that our
conversation was an extraordinary event. I had the sensation that the
sound of don Juan's words
and mine were like a sheet that broke, and that the rasping sound had
been deliberately prowling,
waiting for a chance to break through.
Don Juan commanded me to sit tight and not to pay attention to the
surroundings. The rasping
noise reminded me of the sound of a gopher clawing on hard dry ground.
The moment I had
thought of the simile I also had a visual image of a rodent, like the
one don Juan had showed me
on his palm. It was as if I were falling asleep and my thoughts were
turning into visions or
dreams.
I began the breathing exercise and held my stomach with my clasped
hands. Don Juan kept on
talking, but I was not listening to him. My attention was on the soft
rustle of a snake-like thing
slithering over small dry leaves. I had a moment of panic and physical
revulsion at the thought of
a snake crawling on me. I involuntarily put my feet under don Juan's
legs and breathed and
blinked frantically.
I heard the noise so close that it seemed to be only a couple of feet
away. My panic mounted.
Don Juan calmly said that the only way to fend off the nagual was to
remain unaltered. He
ordered me to stretch my legs and not to focus my attention on the
noise. He imperatively
demanded that I write or ask questions and make an effort not to
succumb.
After a great struggle I asked him if don Genaro was making the noise.
He said that it was the
nagual and that I should not mix them; Genaro was the name of the
tonal. He then said
something else, but I could not understand him. Something was circling
around the house and I
could not concentrate on our conversation. He commanded me to make a
supreme effort. At one
moment I found that I was babbling idiocies about my being unworthy. I
had a jolt of fear and
snapped into a state of great lucidity. Don Juan told me then that it
was all right to listen. But
there were no sounds.
"The nagual is gone," don Juan said and stood up and went inside.
He lit don Genaro's kerosene lantern and made some food. We ate in
silence. I asked him if
the nagual was coming back.
"No," he said with a serious expression. "It was just testing you. At
this time of night, just
after the twilight, you should always involve yourself in something.
Anything would do. It is only
for a short period, an hour perhaps, but in your case a most deadly
hour.
"Tonight the nagual tried to make you stumble, but you were strong
enough to ward off its
assault. Once, you succumbed to it and I had to pour water over your
body, this time you did
106
fine."
I remarked that the word "assault" made the event sound very dangerous.
"Made it sound dangerous? That's a weird way of putting it," he said.
"I'm not trying to scare
you. The actions of the nagual are deadly. I've already told you that,
and it is not that Genaro tries
to hurt you; on the contrary, his concern for you is impeccable, but if
you don't have enough
power to parry the nagual's onslaught, you're dead, regardless of my
help or Genaro's concern."
After we finished eating, don Juan sat next to me and looked over my
shoulder at my notes. I
commented that it would probably take me years to assort everything
that had happened to me
during that day. I knew that I had been flooded with perceptions I
could not ever hope to
understand.
"If you cannot understand, you're in great shape," he said. "It is when
you understand that
you're in a mess. That's from the point of view of a sorcerer, of
course. From the point of view of
an average man, if you fail to understand you're sinking. In your case,
I would say that an average
man would think that you are disassociated, or you're beginning to
become disassociated."
I laughed at his choice of words. I knew that he was throwing the
concept of disassociation
back at me; I had mentioned it to him sometime back in connection with
my fears. I assured him
that this time I was not going to ask anything about what I had been
through.
"I've never put a ban on talking," he said. "We can talk about the
nagual to your heart's
content, as long as you don't try to explain it. If you remember
correctly, I said that the nagual is
only for witnessing. So, we can talk about what we witnessed and about
how we witnessed it.
You want to take on the explanation of how it is all possible, though,
and that is an abomination.
You want to explain the nagual with the tonal. That is stupid,
especially in your case, since you
can no longer hide behind your ignorance. You know very well that we
make sense in talking
only because we stay within certain boundaries, and those boundaries
are not applicable to the
nagual"
I attempted to clarify the issue. It was not only that I wanted to
explain everything from a
rational point of view, but my need to explain stemmed from my
necessity to maintain order
throughout the tremendous onslaughts of chaotic stimuli and perceptions
I had had.
Don Juan's comment was that I was trying to defend a point I did not
agree with.
"You know damn well that you're indulging." he said. "To maintain order
means to be a
perfect tonal, and to be a perfect tonal means to be aware of
everything that takes place on the
island of the tonal. But you're not. So your argument about maintaining
order has no truth in it.
You only use it to win an argument."
I did not know what to say. Don Juan sort of consoled me by saying that
it took a gigantic
struggle to clean the island of the tonal. Then he asked me to recount
all I had perceived in my
second session with the nagual. When I had finished, he said that what
I had witnessed as a furry
crocodile was the epitome of don Genaro's sense of humor.
"It's a pity that you're still so heavy," he said. "You always get
hooked by bewilderment and
miss Genaro's real art."
"Were you aware of his appearance, don Juan?"
"No. The show was only for you."
"What did you see?"
"Today all I could see was the movement of the nagual, gliding through
the trees and whirling
around us. Anyone who sees can witness that."
"What about someone who doesn't see?"
"He would witness nothing, just the trees being blown by a wild wind
perhaps. We interpret
any unknown expression of the nagual as something we know; in this case
the nagual might be
interpreted as a breeze shaking the leaves, or even as some strange
light, perhaps a lightning bug
107
of unusual size. If a man who doesn't see is pressed, he would say that
he thought he saw
something but could not remember what. This is only natural. The man
would be talking sense.
After all, his eyes would have judged nothing extraordinary; being the
eyes of the tonal they have
to be limited to the tonal's world, and in that world there is nothing
staggeringly new, nothing
which the eyes cannot apprehend and the tonal cannot explain."
I asked him about the uncharted perceptions that resulted from their
whispering in my ears.
"That was the best part of the whole event," he said. "The rest could
be dispensed with, but
that was the crown of the day. The rule calls for the benefactor and
the teacher to make that final
trimming. The most difficult of all acts. Both the teacher and the
benefactor must be impeccable
warriors to even attempt the feat of splitting a man. You don't know
this, because it still is
beyond your realm, but power had been lenient with you again. Genaro is
the most impeccable
warrior there is."
"Why is the splitting of a man a great feat?"
"Because it is dangerous. You may have died like a little bug. Or worse
yet, we may have
never been able to put you back together, and you would have remained
on that plateau of
feeling."
"Why was it necessary to do it to me, don Juan?"
"There is a certain time when the nagual has to whisper in the ear of
the apprentice and split
him."
"What does that mean, don Juan?"
"In order to be an average tonal a man must have unity. His whole being
must belong to the
island of the tonal. Without that unity the man would go berserk; a
sorcerer, however, has to
break that unity, but without endangering his being. A sorcerer's goal
is to last; that is, he doesn't
take unnecessary risks, therefore he spends years sweeping his island
until a moment when he
could, in a manner of speaking, sneak off it. Splitting a man in two is
the gate for such an escape.
"The splitting, which is the most dangerous thing you've ever gone
through, was smooth and
simple. The nagual was masterful in guiding you. Believe me, only an
impeccable warrior can do
that. I felt very good for you."
Don Juan put his hand on my shoulder and I had a gigantic urge to weep.
"Am I arriving at a point when you won't see me any more?" I asked.
He laughed and shook his head.
"You indulge like a son of a bitch," he said. "We all do that, though.
We have different ways,
that's all. Sometimes I indulge too. My way is to feel that I have
pampered you and made you
weak. I know that Genaro has the same feeling about Pablito. He pampers
him like a child. But
that is the way power set it up to be. Genaro gives Pablito everything
he's capable of giving and
one cannot wish he would do something else. One cannot criticize a
warrior for doing his
impeccable best."
He was quiet for a moment. I was too nervous to sit in silence.
"What do you think was happening to me when I felt like I was being
sucked by a vacuum?" I
asked.
"You were gliding," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Through the air?"
"No. For the nagual there is no land, or air, or water. At this point
you yourself can agree with
that. Twice you were in that limbo and you were only at the door of the
nagual. You've told me
that everything you encountered was uncharted. So the nagual glides, or
flies, or does whatever it
may do, in nagual's time, and that has nothing to do with tonal's time.
The two things don't jibe."
As don Juan spoke I felt a tremor in my body. My jaw dropped and my
mouth opened
108
involuntarily. My ears unplugged and I could hear a barely perceptible
tingle or vibration. While
I was describing my sensations to don Juan I noticed that when I talked
it sounded as if someone
else were talking. It was a complex sensation that amounted to my
hearing what I was going to
say before I said it.
My left ear was a source of extraordinary sensations. I felt that it
was more powerful and
more accurate than my right ear. There was something in it that had not
been there before. When
I turned around to face don Juan, who was to my right, I became aware
that I had a range of clear
auditory perception around that ear. It was a physical space, a range
within which I could hear
everything with incredible fidelity. By turning my head around I could
scan the surroundings
with my ear.
"The whispering of the nagual did that to you," don Juan said when I
described my sensorial
experience. "It'll come at times and then vanish. Don't be afraid of
it, or of any unusual sensation
that you may have from now on. But above all, don't indulge and become
obsessed with those
sensations. I know you will succeed. The time for your splitting was
right. Power fixed all that.
Now everything depends on you. If you are powerful enough you will
sustain the great shock of
being split. But if you're incapable of holding on, you will perish.
You will begin to wither away,
lose weight, become pale, absent-minded, irritable, quiet."
"Perhaps if you would have told me years ago," I said, "what you and
don Genaro were doing,
I would have enough . . ."
He raised his hand and did not let me finish.
"That's a meaningless statement," he said. "You once told me that if it
wouldn't be for the fact
that you're stubborn and given to rational explanations you would be a
sorcerer by now. But to be
a sorcerer in your case means that you have to overcome stubbornness
and the need for rational
explanations, which stand in your way. What's more, those shortcomings
are your road to power.
You can't say that power would flow to you if your life would be
different.
"Genaro and I have to act the same way you do, within certain limits.
Power sets up those
limits and a warrior is, let's say, a prisoner of power; a prisoner who
has one free choice: the
choice to act either like an impeccable warrior, or to act like an ass.
In the final analysis, perhaps
the warrior is not a prisoner but a slave of power, because that choice
is no longer a choice for
him. Genaro cannot act in any other way but impeccably. To act like an
ass would drain him and
cause his demise.
"The reason why you're afraid of Genaro is because he has to use the
avenue of fright to
shrink your tonal. Your body knows that, although your reason may not,
and thus your body
wants to run away every time Genaro is around."
I mentioned that I was curious to know if don Genaro deliberately set
out to scare me. He said
that the nagual did strange things, things which were not foreseeable.
He gave me, as an example,
what had happened between us in the morning when he prevented my
turning to my left to look
at don Genaro in the tree. He said that he was aware of what his nagual
had done although he had
no way of knowing about it ahead of time. His explanation of the whole
affair was that my
sudden movement to the left was a step towards my death, which my tonal
was deliberately
taking as a suicidal plunge. That movement stirred his nagual and the
result was that some part
of him fell on top of me.
I made an involuntary gesture of perplexity.
"Your reason is telling you again that you're immortal," he said.
"What do you mean by that, don Juan?"
"An immortal being has all the time in the world for doubts and
bewilderment and fears. A
warrior, on the other hand, cannot cling to the meanings made under the
tonal's order, because he
knows for a fact that the totality of himself has but a little time on
this earth."
109
I wanted to make a serious point. My fears and doubts and bewilderment
were not on a
conscious level, and, no matter how hard I tried to control them, every
time I was confronted
with don Juan and don Genaro I felt helpless.
"A warrior cannot be helpless," he said. "Or bewildered or frightened,
not under any
circumstances. For a warrior there is time only for his impeccability;
everything else drains his
power, impeccability replenishes it."
"We're back again to my old question, don Juan. What's impeccability?"
"Yes, we're back again to your old question and consequently we're back
again to my old
answer: 'Impeccability is to do your best in whatever you're engaged
in.'"
"But don Juan, my point is that I'm always under the impression I'm
doing my best, and
obviously I'm not."
"It's not as complicated as you make it appear. The key to all these
matters of impeccability is
the sense of having or not having time. As a rule of thumb, when you
feel and act like an
immortal being that has all the time in the world you are not
impeccable; at those times you
should turn, look around, and then you will realize that your feeling
of having time is an idiocy.
There are no survivors on this earth!"
110
9. The Wings of Perception
Don Juan and I spent the whole day in the mountains. We left at dawn.
He took me to four
places of power and at each one of them he gave me specific
instructions on how to proceed
towards the fulfillment of the particular task that he had outlined
years before as a life situation
for me. We returned in the late afternoon. After eating, don Juan left
don Genaro's house. He told
me that I had to wait for Pablito, who was bringing some kerosene for
the lantern, and that I
should talk to him.
I became utterly absorbed in working on my notes and did not hear
Pablito come in until he
was next to me. Pablito's comment was that he had been practicing the
gait of power, and
because of that I could not possibly have heard him unless I was
capable of seeing. I had always
liked Pablito. I had not, however, had very many opportunities in the
past to be alone with him,
although we were good friends. Pablito had always struck me as being a
most charming person.
His name, of course, was Pablo, but the diminutive, Pablito, suited him
better. He was smallboned
but wiry. Like don Genaro he was lean, unsuspectedly muscular, and
strong. He was
perhaps in his late twenties, but it seemed like he was eighteen. He
was dark and of medium
height. His brown eyes were clear and bright, and like don Genaro he
had a winning smile with a
touch of devilishness in it.
I asked him about his friend Nestor, don Genaro's other apprentice. In
the past I had always
seen them together, and they had always given me the impression of
having an excellent rapport
with each other; yet they were opposites in physical appearance and
character. While Pablito was
jovial and frank, Nestor was gloomy and withdrawn. He was also taller,
heavier, darker, and
much older.
Pablito said that Nestor had finally become involved in his work with
don Genaro, and that he
had changed into an altogether different person since the last time I
had seen him. He did not
want to elaborate any further on Nestor's work or change of personality
and abruptly shifted the
topic of conversation.
"I understand the nagual is biting your heels," he said.
I was surprised that he knew and I asked how he had found that out.
"Genaro tells me everything," he said.
I noticed that he did not speak of don Genaro in the same formal way I
did. He simply called
him Genaro in a familiar fashion. He said that don Genaro was like his
brother, and that they
were at ease around each other as though they were family. He openly
professed that he loved
don Genaro dearly. I was deeply moved by his simplicity and candor. In
talking to him, I realized
how close in temperament don Juan and I were; thus our relationship was
formal and strict in
comparison to don Genaro and Pablito's.
I asked Pablito why he was afraid of don Juan. His eyes flickered. It
was as if the mere
thought of don Juan made him wince. He did not answer. He seemed to be
assessing me in some
mysterious way.
"You're not afraid of him?" he asked.
I told him I was afraid of don Genaro and he laughed as if that were
the last thing he expected
to hear. He said that the difference between don Juan and don Genaro
was like the difference
between day and night. Don Genaro was the day; don Juan was the night,
and as such he was the
most frightening being on earth. Describing his fear for don Juan led
Pablito to make some
comments about his own condition as an apprentice.
"I'm in a most miserable state," he said. "If you could see what's in
my house you would
realize that I know too much for an ordinary man, and yet if you saw me
with the nagual, you
would realize that I don't know enough."
111
He quickly changed the subject and began to laugh at my taking notes.
He said that don
Genaro had provided hours of fun imitating me. He added that don Genaro
liked me very much,
in spite of the oddities of my person, and that he had expressed his
delight in my being his
"protegido."
This was the first time I had heard that term. It was congruous with
another term introduced
by don Juan at the beginning of our association. He had told me that I
was his "escogido," the
chosen one. The word "protegido" meant the protected one.
I asked Pablito about his meetings with the nagual and he told me the
story of his first
encounter with it. He said that once don Juan gave him a basket, which
he took to be a gift of
good will. He placed it on a hook over the door of his room, and since
he could not conceive any
use for it at that moment he forgot about it all day. He said that his
idea was that the basket was a
gift of power and had to be put to use with something very special.
During the early evening, which Pablito said was his deadly hour also,
he walked into his
room to get his jacket. He was alone in the house and was getting ready
to go visit a friend. The
room was dark. He grabbed the jacket and when he was about to reach the
door the basket fell in
front of him and rolled near his feet. Pablito said that he laughed his
fright away as soon as he
saw that it had only been the basket that had fallen from the hook. He
leaned over to pick it up
and got the jolt of his life. The basket jumped out of his reach and
began to shake and squeak, as
if someone were twisting and pressing down on it. Pablito said that
there was enough light
coming from the kitchen to clearly distinguish everything in the room.
He stared at the basket for
a moment, although he felt he should not do that. The basket began to
convulse in the midst of
some heavy, rasping and difficult breathing. Pablito maintained, in
recounting his experience,
that he actually saw and heard the basket breathing, and that it was
alive and chased him around
the room, blocking his exit. He said that the basket then began to
swell, all the strips of bamboo
came loose and turned into a giant ball, like a dry tumbleweed that
rolled towards him. He fell
backwards on the floor and the ball began to crawl onto his feet.
Pablito said that by that time he
was out of his mind, screaming hysterically. The ball had him trapped
and moved on his legs like
pins going through him. He tried to push it away and then noticed that
the ball was the face of
don Juan with his mouth open ready to devour him. At that point he
could not stand the terror and
lost consciousness.
Pablito, in a very frank and open manner, told me a series of
terrifying encounters that he and
other members of his household had had with the nagual. We spent hours
talking. He seemed to
be in very much the same quandary that I was in, but was definitely
more sensitive than I in
handling himself within the sorcerers' frame of reference.
At one moment he got up and said that he felt don Juan was coming and
did not want to be
found there. He took off with incredible speed. It was as if something
had pulled him out of the
room. He left me in the middle of saying good-by.
Don Juan and don Genaro came back shortly. They were laughing.
"Pablito was running down the road like a soul chased by the devil,"
don Juan said. "I wonder
why?"
"I think he got frightened when he saw Carlitos working his fingers to
the bone," don Genaro
said, mocking my writing.
He came closer to me.
"Hey! I've got an idea," he said almost in a whisper. "Since you like
to write so much, why
don't you learn to write with your finger instead of a pencil. That'll
be a blast."
Don Juan and don Genaro sat by my side and laughed while they
speculated about the
possibility of writing with one's finger. Don Juan, in a serious tone,
made a strange comment. He
said, "There is no doubt that he could write with his finger, but would
he be able to read it?"
112
Don Genaro doubled up with laughter and added, "I am confident that he
can read anything."
And then he began to tell a most disconcerting tale about a country
bumpkin who became an
important official during a time of political upheaval. Don Genaro said
that the hero of his story
was appointed minister, or governor, or perhaps even president, because
there was no way of
telling what people would do in their folly. Because of this
appointment he came to believe that
he was indeed important and learned to put on an act.
Don Genaro paused and examined me with the air of a ham actor
overplaying his part. He
winked at me and moved his eyebrows up and down. He said that the hero
of the story was very
good at public appearances and could whip up a speech with no
difficulty at all, but that his
position required that he read his speeches, and the man was
illiterate. So he used his wits to
outsmart everybody. He had a sheet of paper with something written on
it and flashed it around
whenever he gave a speech. And thus his efficiency and other good
qualities were undeniable to
all the country bumpkins. But one day a literate stranger came along
and noticed that the hero
was reading his speech while holding the sheet upside down. He began to
laugh and pointed out
the lie to everyone.
Don Genaro again paused for a moment and looked at me, squinting his
eyes, and asked, "Do
you think that the hero was caught? Not a chance. He faced everyone
calmly and said, 'Upside
down? Why should the position of the sheet matter if you know how to
read?' And the bumpkins
agreed with him."
Don Juan and don Genaro both exploded into laughter. Don Genaro patted
me gently on the
back. It was as if I were the hero of the story. I felt embarrassed and
laughed nervously. I thought
that perhaps there was a hidden meaning to it, but I did not dare ask.
Don Juan moved closer to me. He leaned over and whispered in my right
ear, "Don't you
think it's funny?" Don Genaro also leaned over towards me and whispered
in my left ear, "What
did he say?" I had an automatic reaction to both questions and made an
involuntary synthesis.
"Yes. I thought he asked it's funny," I said.
They were obviously aware of the effect of their maneuvers; they
laughed until tears rolled
down their cheeks. Don Genaro, as usual, was more exaggerated than don
Juan; he fell
backwards and rolled on his back a few yards away from me. He lay on
his stomach, extending
his arms and legs out, and whirled around on the ground as though he
were lying on a swivel. He
whirled until he got close to me and his foot touched mine. He sat up
abruptly and smiled
sheepishly.
Don Juan was holding his sides. He was laughing very hard and it seemed
that his stomach
hurt.After a while they both leaned over and kept on whispering into my
ears. I tried to memorize
the sequence of their utterances but after a futile effort I gave up.
There were too many.
They whispered in my ears until I again had the sensation that I had
been split in two. I
became a mist, like the day before, a yellow glow that sensed
everything directly. That is, I could
"know" things. There were no thoughts involved; there were only
certainties. And when I came
into contact with a soft, spongy, bouncy feeling, which was outside of
me and yet was part of me,
I "knew" it was a tree. I sensed it was a tree by its odor. It did not
smell like any specific tree I
could remember, nonetheless something in me "knew" that that peculiar
odor was the "essence"
of tree. I did not have just the feeling that I knew, nor did I reason
my knowledge out, or shuffle
clues around. I simply knew that there was something there in contact
with me, all around me, a
friendly, warm, compelling smell emanating from something which was
neither solid nor liquid
but an undefined something else, which I "knew" was a tree. I felt that
by "knowing" it in that
manner I was tapping its essence. I was not repelled by it. It rather
invited me to melt with it. It
engulfed me or I engulfed it. There was a bond between us which was
neither exquisite nor
113
displeasing.
The next sensation I could recollect with clarity was a wave of wonder
and exultation. All of
me vibrated. It was as if charges of electricity were going through me.
They were not painful.
They were pleasing, but in such an undetermined form that there was no
way of categorizing
them. I knew, nevertheless, that whatever I was in contact with was the
ground. Some part of me
acknowledged with concise certainty that it was the ground. But the
instant I tried to discern the
infinitude of direct perceptions I was having, I lost all capacity to
differentiate my perceptions.
Then all of a sudden I was myself again. I was thinking. It was such an
abrupt transition that I
thought I had woken up. Yet there was something in the way I felt that
was not quite myself. I
knew that there was indeed something missing before I fully opened my
eyes. I looked around. I
was still in a dream, or having a vision of some sort. My thought
processes, however, were not
only unimpaired but extraordinarily clear. I made a quick assessment. I
had no doubt that don
Juan and don Genaro had induced my dreamlike state for a specific
purpose. I seemed to be on
the verge of understanding what that purpose was when something
extraneous to me forced me to
pay attention to my surroundings. It took me a long moment to orient
myself. I was actually lying
on my stomach and what I was lying on was a most spectacular floor. As
I examined it, I could
not avoid a feeling of awe and wonder. I could not conceive what it was
made of. Irregular slabs
of some unknown substance had been placed in a most intricate yet
simple fashion. They had
been put together but were not stuck to the ground or to each other.
They were elastic and gave
when I attempted to pry them apart with my fingers, but once I released
the tension they went
right back to their original position.
I tried to get up and was seized by the most outlandish sensory
distortion. I had no control
over my body; in fact, my body did not seem to be my own. It was inert;
I had no connection to
any of its parts and when I tried to stand up I could not move my arms
and I wobbled helplessly
on my stomach, rolling on my side. The momentum of my wobbling almost
made me do a
complete turn onto my stomach again. My outstretched arms and legs
prevented me from turning
over and I came to rest on my back. In that position I caught a glimpse
of two strangely shaped
legs and the most distorted feet I had ever seen. It was my body! I
seemed to be wrapped up in a
tunic. The thought that came to my mind was that I was experiencing a
scene of myself as a
cripple or an invalid of some sort. I tried to curve my back and look
at my legs but I could only
jerk my body. I was looking directly at a yellow sky, a deep, rich
lemon-yellow sky. It had
grooves or canals of a deeper yellow tone and an endless number of
protuberances that hung like
drops of water. The total effect of that incredible sky was staggering.
I could not determine if the
protuberances were clouds. There were also areas of shadows and areas
of different tones of
yellow which I discovered as I moved my head from side to side.
Then something else attracted my attention: a sun at the very zenith of
the yellow sky, right
over my head, a mild sun - judging by the fact that I could stare into
it - that cast a soothing,
uniform whitish light.
Before I had had time to ponder upon all these unearthly sights, I was
violently shaken; my
head jerked and bobbed back and forth. I felt I was being lifted. I
heard a shrill voice and
giggling and I was confronted by a most astounding sight: a giant
barefoot female. Her face was
round and enormous. Her black hair was cut in pageboy fashion. Her arms
and legs were
gigantic. She picked me up and lifted me to her shoulders as if I were
a doll. My body hung limp.
I was looking down her strong back. She had a fine fuzz around her
shoulders and down her
spine. Looking down from her shoulder, I saw the magnificent floor
again. I could hear it giving
elastically under her enormous weight and I could see the pressure
marks that her feet left on it.
She put me down on my stomach in front of a structure, some sort of
building. I noticed then
114
that there was something wrong with my depth perception. I could not
figure out the size of the
building by looking at it. At moments it seemed ridiculously small, but
then after I seemingly
adjusted my perception, I truly marveled at its monumental proportions.
The giant girl sat next to me and made the floor squeak. I was touching
her enormous knee.
She smelled like candy or strawberries. She talked to me and I
understood everything she said;
pointing to the structure, she told me that I was going to live there.
My prowess of observation seemed to increase as I got over the initial
shock of finding myself
there. I noticed then that the building had four exquisite
dysfunctional columns. They did not
support anything; they were on top of the building. Their shape was
simplicity itself; they were
long and graceful projections that seemed to be reaching for that
awesome, incredibly yellow
sky. The effect of those inverted columns was sheer beauty to me. I had
a seizure of aesthetic
rapture.
The columns seemed to have been made in one piece; I could not even
conceive how. The two
columns in front were joined by a slender beam, a monumentally long rod
that I thought may
have served as a railing of some sort, or a veranda overlooking the
front.
The giant girl made me slide on my back into the structure. The roof
was black and flat and
was covered with symmetric holes that let the yellowish glare of the
sky show through, creating
the most intricate patterns. I was truly awed with the utter simplicity
and beauty that had been
achieved by those dots of yellow sky showing through those precise
holes in the roof, and the
patterns of shadows that they created on that magnificent and intricate
floor. The structure was
square, and outside of its poignant beauty it was incomprehensible to
me.
My state of exultation was so intense at that moment that I wanted to
weep, or stay there
forever. But some force, or tension, or something undefinable began to
pull me. Suddenly I found
myself out of the structure, still lying on my back. The giant girl was
there, but there was another
being with her, a woman so big that she reached to the sky and eclipsed
the sun. Compared to her
the giant girl was just a little girl. The big woman was angry; she
grabbed the structure by one of
its columns, lifted it up, turned it upside down, and set it on the
floor. It was a chair!
That realization was like a catalyst; it triggered some overwhelming
perceptions. I went
through a series of images that were disconnected but could be made to
stand as a sequence. In
successive flashes I saw or realized that the magnificent and
incomprehensible floor was a straw
mat; the yellow sky was the stucco ceiling of a room; the sun was a
light bulb; the structure that
had evoked such rapture in me was a chair that a child had turned
upside down to play house.
I had one more coherent and sequential vision of another mysterious
architectural structure of
monumental proportions. It stood by itself. It looked almost like a
shell of a pointed snail
standing with its tail up. The walls were made of concave and convex
plates of some strange
purple material; each plate had grooves that seemed more functional
than ornamental.
I examined the structure meticulously and in detail and found that it
was, like in the case of
the previous one, thoroughly incomprehensible. I expected to suddenly
adjust my perception to
disclose the "true" nature of the structure. But nothing of the sort
happened. I then had a
conglomerate of alien and inextricable "awarenesses," or "findings,"
about the building and its
function, which did not make sense, because I had no frame of reference
for them.
I regained my normal awareness all of a sudden. Don Juan and don Genaro
were next to me. I
was tired. I looked for my watch; it was gone. Don Juan and don Genaro
giggled in unison. Don
Juan said that I should not worry about time and that I should
concentrate on following certain
recommendations that don Genaro had made to me.
I turned to don Genaro and he made a joke. He said that the most
important recommendation
was that I should learn to write with my finger, to save on pencils and
to show off.
115
They teased me about my notes for a while longer and then I went to
sleep.
Don Juan and don Genaro listened to the detailed account of my
experience, which I gave
them at don Juan's request after I woke up the next day.
"Genaro feels that you've got enough for the time being," don Juan said
after I finished
talking.
Don Genaro assented with a nod.
"What was the meaning of what I experienced last night?" I asked.
"You caught a glimpse of the most important issue of sorcery," don Juan
said. "Last night you
peeked into the totality of yourself. But that's of course a
meaningless statement for you at this
moment. Obviously, arriving at the totality of oneself is not a matter
of one's desire to agree, or
of one's willingness to learn. Genaro thinks that your body needs time
to let the whispering of the
nagual sink into you."
Don Genaro nodded again.
"Plenty of time," he said, shaking his head up and down. "Twenty or
thirty years perhaps."
I did not know how to react. I looked at don Juan for clues. They both
had serious
expressions.
"Do I really have twenty or thirty years?" I asked.
"Of course not!" don Genaro yelled and they broke into laughter.
Don Juan said that I should return whenever my inner voice told me to,
and that in the
meantime I should try to assemble all the suggestions that they had
made while I was split.
"How do I do that?" I asked.
"By turning off your internal dialogue and letting something in you
flow out and expand," don
Juan said. "That something is your perception, but don't try to figure
out what I mean. Just let the
whispering of the nagual guide you."
Then he said that the night before I had had two sets of intrinsically
different views. One was
inexplicable, the other was perfectly natural, and the order in which
they had happened pointed to
a condition that was intrinsic to all of us.
"One view was the nagual, the other the tonal" don Genaro added.
I wanted him to explain his statement. He looked at me and patted me on
the back.
Don Juan stepped in and said that the first two views were the nagual,
and that don Genaro
had selected a tree and the ground as the points for emphasis. The
other two were views of the
tonal that he himself had selected; one of them was my perception of
the world as an infant.
"It appeared to be an alien world to you, because your perception had
not been trimmed yet to
fit the desired mold," he said.
"Was that the way I really saw the world?" I asked.
"Certainly," he said. "That was your memory."
I asked don Juan whether the feeling of aesthetic appreciation that had
enraptured me was also
part of my memory.
"We go into those views as we are today," he said. "You were seeing
that scene as you would
see it now. Yet the exercise was one of perception. That was the scene
of a time when the world
became for you what it is now. A time when a chair became a chair."
He did not want to discuss the other scene.
"That wasn't a memory of my childhood," I said.
"That's right," he said. "It was something else."
"Was it something I will see in the future?" I asked.
"There's no future!" he exclaimed cuttingly. "The future is only a way
of talking. For a
sorcerer there is only the here and now."
116
He said that there was essentially nothing to say about it because the
purpose of the exercise
had been to open the wings of my perception, and that although I had
not flown on those wings I
had nonetheless touched four points which would be inconceivable to
reach from the point of
view of my ordinary perception.
I began to gather my things to leave. Don Genaro helped me pack my
notebook; he put it in
the bottom of my briefcase.
"It'll be warm and cozy there," he said and winked. "You can rest
assured that it won't catch
cold."
Then don Juan seemed to change his mind about my leaving and started to
talk about my
experience. I automatically tried to grab my briefcase from don
Genaro's hands, but he dropped it
to the floor before I touched it. Don Juan was talking with his back
turned to me. I scooped up
the briefcase and hurriedly searched for my notebook. Don Genaro had
really packed it so tightly
that I had a hellish time getting to it; finally I took it out and
began to write. Don Juan and don
Genaro were staring at me.
"You're in terrible shape," don Juan said, laughing. "You reach for
your notebook as a
drunkard reaches for the bottle."
"As a loving mother reaches for her child," don Genaro snapped.
"As a priest reaches for his crucifix," don Juan added.
"As a woman reaches for her panties," don Genaro yelled.
They went on and on presenting similes and howling with laughter as
they walked me to my
car.
117
Part 3: The
Sorcerers' Explanation
118
10. Three Witnesses to The
Nagual
Upon returning home I was faced again with the task of organizing my
field notes. What don
Juan and don Genaro had made me experience became all the more poignant
as I recapitulated
the events. I noticed, however, that my usual reaction of indulging for
months in bewilderment
and awe over what I had gone through was not as intense as it had been
in the past. Various
times, I deliberately attempted to engage my feelings, as I had done
before, in speculation and
even in self-pity; but something was missing. I had also had the
intention of writing down a
number of questions to ask don Juan, don Genaro, or even Pablito. The
project failed before I had
begun it. There was something in me that prevented my entering into a
mood of inquiry or
perplexity.
I did not purposely seek to go back to don Juan and don Genaro, but
neither did I shy away
from the possibility. One day, however, without any premeditation on my
part I simply felt that it
was time to see them.
In the past, every time I was about to leave for Mexico, I had always
had the feeling that there
were thousands of important and pressing questions that I wanted to ask
don Juan; this time there
was nothing on my mind. It was as if after I had worked over my notes I
had become emptied of
the past and ready for the here and now of don Juan and don Genaro's
world.
I had to wait only a few hours before don Juan "found" me in the market
of a little town in the
mountains of central Mexico. He greeted me with utmost affection and
made a casual suggestion.
He said that before we arrived at don Genaro's place, he would like to
pay a visit to don Genaro's
apprentices, Pablito and Nestor. As I turned off the highway he told me
to keep a close watch for
any unusual sight on the side of the road or on the road itself. I
asked him to give me more
precise clues about what he had in mind.
"I can't," he said. "The nagual doesn't need precise clues."
I slowed the car down in an automatic response to his reply. He laughed
loudly and signaled
me with a movement of his hand to keep on driving.
As we approached the town where Pablito and Nestor lived don Juan told
me to stop my car.
He moved his chin imperceptibly and pointed to a group of medium size
boulders on the left side
of the road.
"There's the nagual" he said in a whisper.
There was no one around. I had expected to see don Genaro. I looked at
the boulders again
and then I scanned the area around them. There was nothing in sight. I
strained my eyes to
distinguish anything, a small animal, an insect, a shadow, a strange
formation of the rocks,
anything unusual. I gave up after a moment and turned to face don Juan.
He held my questioning
gaze without smiling and then gently pushed my arm with the back of his
hand to make me look
at the boulders again. I stared at them, then don Juan got out of the
car and told me to follow him
and examine them.
We walked slowly on a gentle slope for about sixty or seventy yards to
the base of the rocks.
He stood there for a moment and whispered in my right ear that the
nagual was waiting for me
right at that place. I told him that no matter how hard I tried, all I
could distinguish were the
rocks and a few tufts of weeds and some cactuses. He insisted, however,
that the nagual was
there, waiting for me.
He ordered me to sit down, turn off my internal dialogue, and keep my
unfocused eyes on the
top of the boulders. He sat by me and, putting his mouth to my right
ear, whispered that the
nagual had seen me, that it was there although I could not visualize
it, and that my problem was
merely one of not being capable of completely shutting off my internal
dialogue. I heard every
119
word he said in a state of inner silence. I understood everything yet I
was incapable of answering;
the effort needed to think and talk would have been impossible. My
reactions to his comments
were not thoughts proper but rather complete units of feeling, which
had all the innuendos of
meaning that I usually associate with thinking.
He whispered that it was very difficult to start by oneself on the path
towards the nagual, and
that I was indeed most fortunate to have been launched by the moth and
its song. He said that by
holding the memory of the moth's call, I could bring it back to aid me.
His words were either an overpowering suggestion or perhaps I summoned
that perceptual
phenomenon he called the moth's call, for no sooner had he whispered
his words to me than the
extraordinary sputtering sound became audible. Its richness of tone
made me feel as if I were
inside an echo chamber. As the sound grew in loudness or proximity, I
also detected, in a
dreamlike state, that something was moving on top of the boulders. The
movement frightened me
so intensely that I immediately regained my crystal clear awareness. My
eyes focused on the
boulders. Don Genaro was sitting on top of one of them! His feet were
dangling; and with the
heels of his shoes he was hammering the rock, producing a rhythmical
sound that seemed to be
synchronized with the moth's call. He smiled and waved his hand at me.
I wanted to think
rationally. I had the feeling, the desire to figure out how he got
there, or how I saw him there, but
I could not involve my reason at all. All I could do, under the
circumstances, was to look at him
while he sat smiling, waving his hand.
After a moment he seemed to get ready to slide down the round boulder.
I saw him stiffening
his legs, preparing his feet for landing on the hard ground, and
arching his back until he almost
touched the surface of the rock in order to gain sliding momentum. But
in the middle of his
descent his body stopped. I had the impression he got stuck. He kicked
a couple of times with
both legs as if he were floating in water. He seemed to be trying to
get loose from something that
had trapped him by the seat of his pants. He rubbed the sides of his
buttocks frantically with both
hands. He actually gave me the impression of being painfully caught. I
wanted to run to him and
aid him, but don Juan held my arm. I heard him say to me, half choking
with laughter, "Watch
him! Watch him!"
Don Genaro kicked, contorted his body and wiggled from side to side as
if he were loosening
a nail; then I heard a loud pop and he glided, or was hurled, to where
don Juan and I were
standing. He landed four or five feet in front of me, on his feet. He
rubbed his buttocks and
jumped up and down in a dance of pain, yelling profanities.
"The rock didn't want to let me go and grabbed me by the ass," he said
to me in a sheepish
tone.
I experienced a sensation of unequaled joy. I laughed loudly. I noticed
that my mirth was
equal to my clarity of mind. I was engulfed at that moment in an
overall state of great awareness.
Everything around me was crystal clear. I had been drowsy or
absent-minded before because of
my inner silence. But then something in don Genaro's sudden appearance
had created a state of
great lucidity.
Don Genaro kept on rubbing his buttocks and jumping up and down for a
while longer; then
he limped to my car, opened the door and crawled into the back seat.
I automatically turned around to talk to don Juan. He was not anywhere
in sight. I started to
call him out loud. Don Genaro got out of the car and began to run
around in circles also calling
don Juan's name in a shrill, frantic tone. It was only then, as I
watched him, that I realized he was
mimicking me. I had had an attack of such an intense fear upon finding
myself alone with don
Genaro that I had run around the car three or four times in quite an
unconscious manner, yelling
don Juan's name.
Don Genaro said that we had to pick up Pablito and Nestor and that don
Juan would be
120
waiting for us somewhere along the way.
After I had overcome my initial fright, I told him that I was glad to
see him. He teased me
about my reaction. He said that don Juan was not like a father to me,
but rather like a mother. He
made some remarks and puns about "mothers" that were utterly funny. I
was laughing so hard
that I did not notice that we had arrived at Pablito's house. Don
Genaro told me to stop and he got
out of the car. Pablito was standing by the door of his house. He came
running and got in the car
and sat next to me in the front.
"Let's go to Nestor's place," he said as if he were in a hurry.
I turned to look for don Genaro. He was not around. Pablito urged me in
a pleading voice to
hurry.
We drove up to Nestor's house. He was also waiting by the door. We got
out of the car. I had
the feeling that the two of them knew what was going on.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Didn't Genaro tell you?" Pablito asked me with a tone of incredulity.
I assured them that neither don Juan nor don Genaro had mentioned
anything to me.
"We're going to a power place," Pablito said.
"What are we going to do there?" I asked.
They both said in unison that they did not know. Nestor added that don
Genaro had told him
to guide me to the place.
"Did you come from Genaro's house?" Pablito asked.
I mentioned that I had been with don Juan and that we had found don
Genaro on the way and
that don Juan had left me with him.
"Where did don Genaro go?" I asked Pablito.
But Pablito did not know what I was talking about. He had not seen don
Genaro in my car.
"He drove with me to your house," I said.
"I think you had the nagual in your car," Nestor said in a frightened
tone.
He did not want to sit in the back and crammed next to Pablito in the
front.
We drove in silence, except for Nestor's short commands to show the way.
I wanted to think about the events of that morning, but somehow I knew
that any attempt to
explain them was a fruitless indulging on my part. I tried to engage
Nestor and Pablito in a
conversation; they said that they were too nervous inside the car and
could not talk. I enjoyed
their candid reply and did not press them any further.
After more than an hour's drive, we parked the car on a side road and
climbed up the side of a
steep mountain. We walked in silence for another hour or so, with
Nestor in the lead, and then we
stopped at the bottom of a huge cliff, which was perhaps over two
hundred feet high with a
nearly vertical drop. With half-closed eyes Nestor scanned the ground,
looking for a proper place
to sit. I was painfully aware that he was clumsy in his scanning
movements. Pablito, who was
next to me, seemed at various times to be on the verge of stepping in
and correcting him, but he
restrained himself and relaxed. Then Nestor selected a place, after a
moment's hesitation. Pablito
sighed with relief. I knew that the place Nestor had selected was the
proper one, but I could not
figure out how I knew that. Thus I involved myself in the pseudo
problem of imagining what
place I would have selected myself if I had been leading them. I could
not, however, even begin
to speculate on the procedure I would have followed. Pablito was
obviously aware of what I was
doing.
"You can't do that," he whispered to me.
I laughed with embarrassment, as if he had caught me doing something
illicit. Pablito laughed
and said that don Genaro always walked around in the mountains with
both of them and gave
each of them the lead from time to time, so he knew that there was no
way of imagining what
121
would have been one's choice.
"Genaro says that the reason why there is no way to do that is because
there are only right and
wrong choices," he said. "If you make a wrong choice your body knows
it, and so does the body
of everyone else; but if you make a right choice the body knows that
and relaxes and forgets right
away that there was a choice. You reload your body, see, like a gun,
for the next choice. If you
want to use your body again for making the same choice, it doesn't
work."
Nestor looked at me; he was apparently curious about my taking notes.
He nodded
affirmatively as if agreeing with Pablito and then smiled for the first
time. Two of his upper teeth
were crooked.
Pablito explained that Nestor was not mean or morbid but embarrassed by
his teeth and that
that was the reason he never smiled. Nestor laughed, covering his
mouth. I told him that I could
send him to a dentist to have his teeth straightened. They thought that
my suggestion was a joke
and laughed like two children.
"Genaro says that he has to overcome the feeling of shame by himself,"
Pablito said.
"Besides, Genaro says that he's lucky; while everyone else bites the
same way, Nestor can split a
bone lengthwise with his strong crooked teeth and he can bite a hole
through your finger like a
nail."
Nestor opened his mouth and showed me his teeth. The left incisor and
the canine had grown
in sideways. He made his teeth clatter by biting on them and growled
like a dog. He made two or
three mock advances towards me. Pablito laughed.
I had never seen Nestor so light. The few times I had been with him in
the past he had given
me the impression of being a middle-aged man. As he sat there smiling
with his crooked teeth I
marveled at his youthful appearance. He looked like a young man in his
early twenties.
Pablito again read my thoughts to perfection.
"He's losing his self-importance," he said. "That's why he's younger."
Nestor nodded affirmatively and without saying a word he let out a very
loud fart. I was
startled and dropped my pencil.
Pablito and Nestor nearly died laughing. When they had calmed down,
Nestor came to my
side and showed me a homemade contraption that made a peculiar sound
when squeezed with the
hand. He explained that don Genaro had showed him how to make it. It
had a minute bellows,
and the vibrator could be any kind of leaf that was placed in a slit
between the two pieces of
wood that were the compressors. Nestor said that the kind of sound it
produced depended on the
type of leaf that one used as a vibrator. He wanted me to try it and
showed me how to squeeze the
compressors to produce a certain type of sound, and how to open them in
order to produce
another.
"What do you use it for?" I asked.
They both exchanged a glance.
"That's his spirit catcher, you fool," Pablito said cuttingly.
His tone was peevish but his smile was friendly. They were both such a
strange unnerving
mixture of don Genaro and don Juan.
I became absorbed in a horrible thought. Were don Juan and don Genaro
playing tricks on
me? I had a moment of supreme terror. But something snapped inside of
my stomach and I
instantly became calm again. I knew that Pablito and Nestor were using
don Genaro and don
Juan as models for behavior. I myself had found that I also was
behaving more and more like
them.
Pablito said that Nestor was lucky to have a spirit catcher and that he
did not have one
himself.
122
"What shall we do here?" I asked Pablito.
Nestor answered as if I had addressed the question to him.
"Genaro told me that we have to wait here, and while we wait we should
laugh and enjoy
ourselves," he said.
"How long do you think we have to wait?" I asked.
He did not answer; he shook his head and looked at Pablito as if asking
him.
"I have no idea," Pablito said.
We got involved then in a lively conversation about Pablito's sisters.
Nestor teased him that
his oldest sister had such a mean look that she could kill lice with
her eyes. He said that Pablito
was afraid of her because she was so strong that once in a fit of anger
she plucked a handful of
his hair as if it were chicken feathers.
Pablito conceded that his oldest sister had been a beast, but that the
nagual had fixed her and
brought her into line. After he had told me the story of how she was
made to behave I realized
that Pablito and Nestor never mentioned don Juan's name but referred to
him as the "nagual."
Apparently don Juan had intervened in Pablito's life and coerced all
his sisters into leading a
more harmonious life. Pablito said that after the nagual was through
with them they were like
saints.
Nestor wanted to know what I did with my notes. I explained my work to
them. I had the
weird sensation that they were genuinely interested in what I was
saying and I ended up talking
about anthropology and philosophy. I felt ludicrous and wanted to stop,
but I found myself
immersed in my elucidation and unable to cut it short. I had the
unsettling sensation that both of
them as a team were somehow forcing me into that lengthy explanation.
Their eyes were fixed on
me. They did not seemed to be bored or tired.
I was in the middle of a comment when I heard the faint sound of the
moth's call. My body
stiffened and I never finished my sentence.
"The nagual is here," I said automatically.
Nestor and Pablito exchanged a look that I thought was sheer terror and
jumped to my side
and flanked me. Their mouths were open. They looked like frightened
children.
I had an inconceivable sensory experience then. My left ear began to
move. I felt it sort of
wiggling by itself. It practically turned my head in a half circle
until I was facing what I thought
to be the east. My head tilted slightly to the right; in that position
I was capable of detecting the
rich sputtering sound of the moth's call. It sounded as if it were far
away, coming from the
northeast. Once I had established the direction, my ear picked up an
incredible amount of sounds.
I had no way of knowing, however, whether they were memories of sounds
I had heard before or
actual sounds which were being produced then.
The place where we were was the rugged west slope of a mountain range.
Towards the
northeast there were groves of trees and patches of mountain shrubs. My
ear seemed to pick up
the sound of something heavy moving over rocks, coming from that
direction.
Nestor and Pablito were either responding to my actions or they
themselves were hearing the
same sounds. I would have liked to ask them, but I did not dare; or
perhaps I was incapable of
interrupting my concentration.
Nestor and Pablito huddled against me, by my sides, when the sound
became louder and
closer. Nestor seemed to be the one who was most affected by it; his
body shivered
uncontrollably. At one moment my left arm began to shake; it raised
without my volition until it
was almost level with my face, and then it pointed to an area of
shrubs. I heard a vibratory sound
or a roar; it was a familiar sound to me. I had heard it many years
before under the influence of a
psychotropic plant. I detected in the shrubs a gigantic black shape. It
was as if the shrubs
123
themselves were becoming darker by degrees until they had changed into
an ominous blackness.
It had no definite form, but it moved. It seemed to breathe. I heard a
chilling scream, which was
mixed with the yells of terror of Pablito and Nestor; and the shrubs,
or the black shape into which
they had turned, flew up towards us.
I could not maintain my equanimity. Somehow something in me faltered.
The shape first
hovered over us, and then engulfed us. The light around us became
opaque. It was as if the sun
had set. Or as if all of a sudden it had become twilight. I felt Nestor
and Pablito's heads under my
armpits; I brought my arms down over their heads in an unconscious
protective movement and I
fell, spinning backwards.
I did not reach the rocky ground, however, for an instant later I found
myself standing up
flanked by Pablito and Nestor. Both of them, although taller than I,
seemed to have shriveled; by
arching their legs and backs they were actually shorter than I and fit
under my arms.
Don Juan and don Genaro were standing in front of us. Don Genaro's eyes
glittered like the
eyes of a cat at night. Don Juan's eyes had the same glow. I had never
seen don Juan look that
way. He was truly awesome. More so than don Genaro. He seemed younger
and stronger than
usual. Looking at both of them, I had the maddening feeling that they
were not men like myself.
Pablito and Nestor whined quietly. Then don Genaro said that we were
the picture of the
Trinity. I was the Father, Pablito was the Son, and Nestor the Holy
Ghost. Don Juan and don
Genaro laughed in a booming tone. Pablito and Nestor smiled meekly.
Don Genaro said that we had to disentangle ourselves, because embraces
were permissible
only between men and women, or between a man and his burro.
I realized then that I was standing on the same spot I had been before,
and that obviously I
had not spun backwards as I thought I had. In fact, Nestor and Pablito
were also on the same spot
they had been on.
Don Genaro signaled Pablito and Nestor with a movement of his head. Don
Juan signaled me
to follow them. Nestor took the lead and pointed out a sitting place
for me and another one for
Pablito. We sat in a straight line, about fifty yards from the place
where don Juan and don Genaro
stood motionless at the base of the cliff. As I kept on staring at
them, my eyes went involuntarily
out of focus. I knew I had definitely crossed them, because I was
seeing four of them. Then my
left eye image of don Juan became superimposed on the right eye image
of don Genaro; the
result of the merger was that I saw an iridescent being standing in
between don Juan and don
Genaro. It was not a man as I ordinarily see men. It was rather a ball
of white fire; something like
fibers of light covered it. I shook my head; the double image was
dispelled, and yet the sight of
don Juan and don Genaro as luminous beings persisted. I was seeing two
strange elongated
luminous objects. They looked like white iridescent footballs with
fibers, fibers that had a light of
their own.
The two luminous beings shivered; I actually saw their fibers shaking
and then they whizzed
out of sight. They were pulled up by a long filament, a cobweb that
seemed to shoot out from the
top of the cliff. The sensation I had was that a long beam of light or
a luminous line had dropped
from the rock and lifted them up. I perceived the sequence with my eyes
and with my body.
I was also capable of noticing enormous disparities in my mode of
perceiving, but I was
incapable of speculating about them as I would have ordinarily done.
Thus, I was aware that I
was looking straight at the base of the cliff, and yet I was seeing don
Juan and don Genaro on the
top as if I had tilted my head up forty-five degrees.
I wanted to feel afraid, perhaps to cover my face and weep, or do
something else within my
normal range of responses. But I seemed to be locked. My desires were
not thoughts, as I know
thoughts, therefore they could not evoke the emotional response I was
accustomed to eliciting in
124
myself.
Don Juan and don Genaro plunged to the ground. I felt that they had
done so judging by the
consuming feeling of falling that I experienced in my stomach.
Don Genaro remained where he had landed, but don Juan walked towards us
and sat down,
behind me, to my right. Nestor was in a crouching position; his legs
tucked in against his
stomach; he was resting his chin on his cupped palms; his forearms
served as supports by being
propped against his thighs. Pablito was sitting with his body slightly
bent forward, holding his
hands against his stomach. I noticed then that I had placed my forearms
across my umbilical
region and I was holding myself by the skin on my sides. I had grabbed
myself so hard that my
sides ached.
Don Juan spoke in a dry murmur, addressing all of us.
"You must fix your gaze on the nagual" he said. "All thoughts and words
must be washed
away."
He repeated it five or six times. His voice was strange, unknown to me;
it gave me the actual
feeling of the scales on the skin of a lizard. That simile was a
feeling, not a conscious thought.
Each of his words peeled, like scales; there was such an eerie rhythm
to them; they were muffled,
dry, like soft coughing; a rhythmical murmur made into a command.
Don Genaro stood motionless. As I stared at him I could not keep my
image conversion, and
my eyes crossed involuntarily. In that state I noticed again a strange
luminosity in don Genaro's
body. My eyes were beginning to close, or to tear. Don Juan came to my
rescue. I heard him
giving a command not to cross the eyes. I felt a soft tap on my head.
He had apparently hit me
with a pebble, I saw the pebble bounce a couple of times on the rocks
near me. He must have also
hit Nestor and Pablito; I heard the sound of other pebbles as they
bounced on the rocks.
Don Genaro adopted a strange dancing posture. His knees were bent, his
arms were extended
to his sides, his fingers outstretched. He seemed to be about to twirl;
in fact, he half whirled
around and then he was pulled up. I had the clear perception that he
had been hoisted up by the
line of a giant caterpillar that lifted his body to the very top of the
cliff. My perception of the
upward movement was a most weird mixture of visual and bodily
sensations. I half saw and half
felt his flight to the top. There was something that looked or felt
like a line or an almost
imperceptible thread of light pulling him up. I did not see his flight
upward in the sense I would
follow a bird in flight with my eyes. There was no linear sequence to
his movement. I did not
have to raise my head to keep him within my field of vision. I saw the
line pulling him, then I felt
his movement in my body, or with my body, and the next instant he was
on the very top of the
cliff, hundreds of feet up.
After a few minutes he plummeted down. I felt his falling and groaned
involuntarily.
Don Genaro repeated his feat three more times. Each time, my perception
was tuned. During
his last upward leap I could actually distinguish a series of lines
emanating from his midsection,
and I knew when he was about to ascend or descend, judging by the way
the lines of his body
moved. When he was about to leap upward, the lines bent upward; the
opposite happened when
he was about to leap downward; the lines bent outward and down.
After his fourth leap don Genaro came to us and sat down behind Pablito
and Nestor. Then
don Juan moved to the front and stood where don Genaro had been. He
stood motionless for a
while. Don Genaro gave some brief instructions to Pablito and Nestor. I
did not understand what
he had said. I glanced at them and saw that he had made each one hold a
rock and place it against
the area of their navels. I was wondering whether I also had to do
that, when he told me that the
precaution did not apply to me but nonetheless I should have a rock
within reach just in case I got
ill. Don Genaro jutted his chin forward to indicate that I should gaze
at don Juan, then he said
something unintelligible; he repeated it, and although I did not
understand his words, I knew that
125
it was more or less the same formula that don Juan had voiced. The
words did not really matter; it
was the rhythm, the dryness of tone, the coughlike quality. I had the
certainty that whatever
language don Genaro was using was more appropriate than Spanish for the
staccato quality of the
rhythm.
Don Juan did exactly as don Genaro had initially done, but then instead
of leaping upward he
twirled around like a gymnast. In a semi-aware way I expected him to
land on his feet again. He
never did. His body kept on twirling a few feet above the ground. The
circles were very rapid at
first, then they slowed down. From where I was I could see don Juan's
body hanging, like don
Genaro's body had, from a threadlike light. He whirled slowly as if
allowing us to fully view him.
Then he began to ascend; he gained altitude until he reached the top of
the cliff. Don Juan was
actually floating as if he had no weight. His turns were slow and
evoked the image of an
astronaut in space whirling around in a state of weightlessness.
I got dizzy as I watched him. My feeling of getting ill seemed to
trigger him and he began to
whirl at a greater speed. He moved away from the cliff and as he gained
speed I became utterly
sick. I grabbed the rock and placed it on my stomach. I pressed it
against my body as hard as I
could. Its touch soothed me a bit. The act of reaching for the rock and
holding it against me had
allowed me a moment's break. Although I had not taken my eyes away from
don Juan, I had
nevertheless broken my concentration. Before I reached for the rock I
felt that the speed which
his floating body had gained was blurring his shape; he looked like a
rotating disk and then a
light that was spinning. After I had placed the rock against my body
his speed diminished; he
looked like a hat floating in the air, a kite that bobbed back and
forth.
The movement of the kite was even more unsettling. I became
uncontrollably ill. I heard the
flapping of bird wings and after a moment of uncertainty I knew that
the event had ended.
I felt so ill and exhausted that I lay down to sleep. I must have dozed
off for a while. I opened
my eyes when someone shook my arm. It was Pablito. He spoke to me in a
frantic tone and said
that I could not fall asleep, because if I did all of us would die. He
insisted that we had to leave
right away even if we had to drag ourselves on all fours. He also
seemed to be physically
exhausted. In fact, I had the idea that we should spend the night
there. The prospect of walking to
my car in the dark seemed most dreadful to me. I tried to convince
Pablito, who was getting more
frantic. Nestor was so ill that he was indifferent.
Pablito sat down in a state of total despair. I made an effort to
organize my thoughts. It was
quite dark by then, although there was still enough light to
distinguish the rocks around us. The
quietness was exquisite and soothing. I enjoyed the moment fully, but
suddenly my body jumped;
I heard the distant sound of a branch being cracked. I automatically
turned to Pablito. He seemed
to know what had happened to me. We grabbed Nestor by the armpits and
practically lifted him
up. We dragged him and ran. He apparently was the only one who knew the
way. He gave us
short commands from time to time.
I was not concerned with what we did. My attention was focused on my
left ear, which
seemed to be a unit independent from the rest of me. Some feeling in me
forced me to stop every
so often and scan the surroundings with my ear. I knew something was
following us. It was
something massive; it crushed small rocks as it advanced.
Nestor regained a degree of composure and walked by himself, holding on
to Pablito's arm
occasionally.
We arrived at a group of trees. By then it was completely dark. I heard
a sudden and
extremely loud cracking sound. It was like the cracking of a monstrous
whip that lashed the tops
of the trees. I could feel a wave of some sort rippling overhead.
Pablito and Nestor screamed and scrambled out of there at full speed. I
wanted them to stop. I
was not sure I could run in the dark. But at that instant I heard and
felt a series of heavy
126
exhalations right behind me. My fright was indescribable.
The three of us ran together until we reached the car. Nestor led us in
some unknown way.
I thought that I should leave them at their houses and then go to a
hotel in town. I would not
have gone to don Genaro's place for anything in the world; but Nestor
did not want to leave the
car, neither did Pablito and neither did I. We ended up at Pablito's
house. He sent Nestor to buy
some beer and cola while his mother and sisters prepared food for us.
Nestor made a joke and
asked if he could be escorted by the oldest sister in case he was
attacked by dogs or drunkards.
Pablito laughed and told me that he had been entrusted with Nestor.
"Who has entrusted you with him?" I asked.
"Power, of course!" he replied. "At one time Nestor was older than me,
but Genaro did
something to him and now he's much younger. You saw that, didn't you?"
"What did don Genaro do?" I asked.
"You know, he made him a child again. He was too important and heavy,
He would've died if
he was not turned younger."
There was something truly candid and endearing about Pablito. The
simplicity of his
explanation was overwhelming to me. Nestor was indeed younger; not only
did he look younger,
but he acted like an innocent child. I knew without any doubt that he
genuinely felt like one.
"I take care of him," Pablito continued. "Genaro says that it's an
honor to look after a warrior.
Nestor is a fine warrior."
His eyes shone, like don Genaro's. He patted me vigorously on the back
and laughed.
"Wish him well, Carlitos," he said. "Wish him well."
I was very tired. I had a strange surge of happy sadness. I told him
that I came from a place
where people rarely if ever wish one another well.
"I know," he said. "The same thing happened to me. But I'm a warrior
now and I can afford to
wish him well."
127
11. The Strategy of a Sorcerer
Don Juan was at don Genaro's house when I got there in the late
morning. I greeted him.
"Hey, what happened to you? Genaro and I waited for you all night," he
said.
I knew that he was joking. I felt light and happy. I had systematically
refused to dwell on
whatever I had witnessed the day before. At that moment, however, my
curiosity was
uncontrollable and I asked him about it.
"Oh, that was a simple demonstration of all the things that you should
know before you get
the sorcerers' explanation," he said. "What you did yesterday made
Genaro feel that you have
stored enough power to go for the real thing. You have obviously
followed his suggestions.
Yesterday you let the wings of your perception unfold. You were stiff
but you still perceived all
the comings and goings of the nagual; in other words, you saw. You also
confirmed something
which at this time is even more important than seeing, and that was the
fact that you can now
place your unwavering attention on the nagual. And that's what will
decide the outcome of the
last issue, the sorcerers' explanation.
"Pablito and you will go into it at the same time. It is a gift of
power to be accompanied by
such a fine warrior."
That seemed to be all he wanted to say. After a while I asked about don
Genaro.
"He's around," he said. "He went into the bushes to make the mountains
tremble."
I heard at that moment a distant rumble, like muffled thunder. Don Juan
looked at me and
laughed.
He made me sit down and asked if I had eaten. I had, so he handed me my
notebook and led
me to don Genaro's favorite spot, a large rock on the west side of the
house, overlooking a deep
ravine.
"Now is when I need your total attention," don Juan said. "Attention in
the sense that warriors
understand attention: a true pause, in order to allow the sorcerers'
explanation to fully soak
through you. We are at the end of our task; all the necessary
instruction has been given to you
and now you must stop, look back, and reconsider your steps. Sorcerers
say that this is the only
way to consolidate one's gains. I definitely would have preferred to
tell you all this at your own
place of power, but Genaro is your benefactor and his spot may be more
beneficial to you in an
instance like this."
What he was referring to as my place of power was a hilltop in the
desert of northern Mexico,
which he had shown me years before and had "given" to me as my own.
"Should I just listen to you without taking notes?" I asked.
"This is indeed a tricky maneuver," he said. "On the one hand, I need
your total attention, and
on the other, you need to be calm and self-assured. The only way for
you to be at ease is to write,
so this is the time to bring forth all your personal power and fulfill
this impossible task of being
yourself without being yourself."
He slapped his thigh and laughed.
"I've already told you that I am in charge of your tonal and that
Genaro is in charge of your
nagual" he went on. "It has been my duty to help you in every matter
concerning your tonal and
everything that I've done with you or to you was done to accomplish one
single task, the task of
cleaning and reordering your island of the tonal. That's my job as your
teacher. Genaro's task as
your benefactor is to give you undeniable demonstrations of the nagual
and to show how to get
to it."
"What do you mean by cleaning and reordering the island of the tonal?"
I asked.
"I mean the total change which I've been telling you about from the
first day we met," he said.
128
"I've told you countless times that a most drastic change was needed if
you wanted to succeed in
the path of knowledge. That change is not a change of mood, or
attitude, or outlook; that change
entails the transformation of the island of the tonal. You have
accomplished that task."
"Do you think that I've changed?" I asked.
He hesitated and then laughed loudly.
"You are as idiotic as ever," he said. "And yet you're not the same.
See what I mean?"
He mocked my taking notes and said that he missed don Genaro, who would
have enjoyed the
absurdity of my writing down the sorcerers' explanation.
"At this precise point a teacher would usually say to his disciple that
they have arrived at a
final crossroad," he continued. "To say such a thing is misleading,
though. In my opinion there is
no final crossroad, no final step to anything. And since there is no
final step to anything, there
shouldn't be any secrecy about any part of our lot as luminous beings.
Personal power decides
who can or who cannot profit by a revelation; my experiences with my
fellow men have proven
to me that very, very few of them would be willing to listen; and of
those few who listen even
fewer would be willing to act on what they have listened to; and of
those who are willing to act
even fewer have enough personal power to profit by their acts. So, the
matter of secrecy about
the sorcerers' explanation boils down to a routine, perhaps a routine
as empty as any other
routine.
"At any rate, you know now about the tonal and the nagual, which are
the core of the
sorcerers' explanation. To know about them seems to be quite harmless.
We are sitting here,
talking innocently about them as if they were just an ordinary topic of
conversation. You are
calmly writing as you've done for years. The scenery around us is a
picture of calmness. It is
early afternoon, the day is beautiful, the mountains around us have
made a protective cocoon for
us. One doesn't have to be a sorcerer to realize that this place, which
speaks of Genaro's power
and impeccability, is the most appropriate background for opening the
door; for that is what I'm
doing today, opening the door for you. But before we venture beyond
this point a fair warning is
required; a teacher is supposed to speak in earnest terms and warn his
disciple that the
harmlessness and placidity of this moment are a mirage, that there is a
bottomless abyss in front
of him, and that once the door opens there is no way to close it
again." He paused for a moment.
I felt light and happy; from don Genaro's place of predilection I had a
breathtaking view. Don
Juan was right; the day and the scenery were more than beautiful. I
wanted to worry about his
admonitions and warnings, but somehow the tranquility around me
screened out all my attempts
and I found myself hoping that perhaps he was speaking only of
metaphorical dangers. Don Juan
suddenly began to talk again.
"The years of hard training are only a preparation for the warrior's
devastating encounter with
. . ."
He paused again, looked at me with squinting eyes, and chuckled. ". . .
with whatever lies out
there, beyond this point," he said. I asked him to explain his ominous
statements.
"The sorcerers' explanation, which doesn't seem like an explanation at
all, is lethal," he said.
"It seems harmless and charming, but as soon as the warrior opens
himself to it, it delivers a blow
that no one can parry."
He broke into a loud laugh.
"So, be prepared for the worst, hut don't hurry or panic," he
proceeded. "You don't have any
time, and yet you're surrounded by eternity. What a paradox for your
reason!"
Don Juan stood up. He wiped off the debris on a smooth bowl-like
depression and sat there
comfortably, with his back against the rock, facing the northwest. He
indicated another place for
me where I too could sit comfortably. I was to his left, also facing
the northwest. The rock was
warm and gave me a feeling of serenity, of protection. It was a mild
day; a soft wind made the
129
heat of the afternoon sun very pleasant. I took off my hat but don Juan
insisted that I should wear
it.
"You're now facing in the direction of your own place of power," he
said. "That is a prop that
may protect you. Today you need all the props you can use. Your hat may
be another one of
them."
"Why are you warning me, don Juan? What's really going to happen?" I
asked.
"What will happen here today depends on whether or not you have enough
personal power to
focus your unwavering attention on the wings of your perception," he
said.
His eyes glittered. He seemed to be more excited than I had ever seen
him before. I thought
that there was something unusual in his voice, perhaps an unaccustomed
nervousness.
He said that the occasion required that right there on my benefactor's
place of predilection he
recapitulate for me every step that he had taken in his struggle to
help me clean and reorder my
island of the tonal. His recapitulation was meticulous and took him
about five hours. In a brilliant
and clear manner he gave me a succinct account of everything he had
done to me since the day
we met. It was as if a dam had been broken. His revelations caught me
completely off guard. I
had accustomed myself to be the aggressive prober; thus, to have don
Juan - who was always the
reluctant party - elucidating the points of his teachings in such an
academic manner was as
astounding as his wearing a suit in Mexico City. His control of the
language, his dramatic timing,
and his choice of words were so extraordinary that I had no way to
explain them rationally. He
said that at that point a teacher had to speak to the individual
warrior in exclusive terms, that the
way he was talking to me and the clarity of his explanation were part
of his last trick, and that
only at the end would everything that he was doing make sense to me. He
talked without
stopping, until he had finished presenting his recapitulation. And I
wrote down everything he said
without any conscious effort on my part.
"Let me begin by telling you that a teacher never seeks apprentices and
no one can solicit the
teachings," he said. "It's always an omen which points out an
apprentice. A warrior who may be
in the position of becoming a teacher must be alert in order to catch
his cubic centimenter of
chance. I saw you just before we met; you had a good tonal, like that
girl we encountered in
Mexico City. After I saw you I waited, very much like what we did with
the girl that night in the
park. The girl went by without paying attention to us. But you were
brought to me by a man who
ran away after babbling inanities. You were left there, facing me, also
babbling inanities. I knew
I had to act fast and hook you; you yourself would've had to do
something of that sort if that girl
would've talked to you. What I did was to grab you with my will."
Don Juan was alluding to the extraordinary way he had looked at me the
day we met. He had
fixed his gaze on me and I had had an inexplicable feeling of vacuity,
or numbness. I could not
find any logical explanation for my reaction and I have always believed
that after our first
meeting I went back to see him only because I had become obsessed with
that look.
"That was my quickest way of hooking you," he said. "It was a direct
blow to your tonal. I
numbed it by focusing my will on it."
"How did you do that?" I asked.
"The warrior's gaze is placed on the right eye of the other person," he
said. "And what it does
is to stop the internal dialogue, then the nagual takes over; thus, the
danger of that maneuver.
Whenever the nagual prevails, even if it is only for an instant, there
is no way of describing the
feeling that the body experiences. I know that you have spent endless
hours trying to figure out
what you felt and that to this day you haven't been able to. I
accomplished what I wanted, though.
I hooked you."
I told him that I could still remember him staring at me.
"The gaze on the right eye is not a stare," he said. "It's rather a
forceful grabbing that one does
130
through the eye of the other person. In other words, one grabs
something that is behind the eye.
One has the actual physical sensation that one is holding something
with the will."
He scratched his head, tilting his hat to the front, over his face.
"This is, naturally, only a way of talking," he continued. "A way of
explaining weird physical
sensations."
He ordered me to stop writing and look at him. He said that he was
going to grab my tonal
gently with his will. The sensation I experienced was a repetition of
what I had felt on that first
day we had met and on other occasions when don Juan had made me feel
that his eyes were
actually touching me, in a physical sense.
"But, how do you make me feel you're touching me, don Juan? What do you
actually do?" I
asked.
"There's no way of exactly describing what one does," he said.
"Something snaps forward
from someplace below the stomach; that something has direction and can
be focused on
anything."
I again felt something like soft tweezers clasping some undefined part
of me.
"It works only when the warrior learns to focus his will" don Juan
explained after he moved
his eyes away. "There's no way of practicing it, therefore I have not
recommended or encouraged
its use. At a given moment in the life of a warrior it simply happens.
No one knows how."
He remained quiet for a while. I felt extremely apprehensive. Don Juan
suddenly began to
speak again.
"The secret is in the left eye," he said. "As a warrior progresses on
the path of knowledge his
left eye can clasp anything. Usually the left eye of a warrior has a
strange appearance; sometimes
it becomes permanently crossed, or it becomes smaller than the other,
or larger, or different in
some way."
He glanced at me and in a joking manner pretended to examine my left
eye. He shook his
head in mock disapproval and chuckled.
"Once the apprentice has been hooked, the instruction begins," he
continued. "The first act of
a teacher is to introduce the idea that the world we think we see is
only a view, a description of
the world. Every effort of a teacher is geared to prove this point to
his apprentice. But accepting
it seems to be one of the hardest things one can do; we are
complacently caught in our particular
view of the world, which compels us to feel and act as if we knew
everything about the world. A
teacher, from the very first act he performs, aims at stopping that
view. Sorcerers call it stopping
the internal dialogue, and they are convinced that it is the single
most important technique that an
apprentice can learn.
"In order to stop the view of the world which one has held since the
cradle, it is not enough to
just wish or make a resolution. One needs a practical task; that
practical task's called the right
way of walking. It seems harmless and nonsensical. As everything else
which has power in itself
or by itself, the right way of walking does not attract attention. You
understood it and regarded it,
at least for several years, as a curious way of behaving. It didn't
dawn on you until very recently
that that was the most effective way to stop your internal dialogue."
"How does the right way of walking stop the internal dialogue?" I asked.
"Walking in that specific manner saturates the tonal" he said. "It
floods it. You see, the
attention of the tonal has to be placed on its creations. In fact, it
is that attention that creates the
order of the world in the first place; so, the tonal must be attentive
to the elements of its world in
order to maintain it, and must, above all, uphold the view of the world
as internal dialogue."
He said that the right way of walking was a subterfuge. The warrior,
first by curling his
fingers, drew attention to the arms; and then by looking, without
focusing his eyes, at any point
directly in front of him on the arc that started at the tip of his feet
and ended above the horizon,
131
he literally flooded his tonal with information. The tonal, without its
one-to-one relation with the
elements of its description, was incapable of talking to itself, and
thus one became silent.
Don Juan explained that the position of the fingers did not matter at
all, that the only
consideration was to draw attention to the arms by clasping the fingers
in various unaccustomed
ways, and that the important thing was the manner in which the eyes, by
being kept unfocused,
detected an enormous number of features of the world without being
clear about them. He added
that the eyes in that state were capable of picking out details which
were too fleeting for normal
vision.
"Together with the right way of walking," don Juan went on, "a teacher
must teach his
apprentice another possibility, which is even more subtle: the
possibility of acting without
believing, without expecting rewards - acting just for the hell of it.
I wouldn't be exaggerating if I
told you that the success of a teacher's enterprise depends on how well
and how harmoniously he
guides his apprentice in this specific respect."
I told don Juan that I did not remember him ever discussing "acting
just for the hell of it" as a
particular technique; all I could recollect were his constant but loose
comments about it.
He laughed and said that his maneuver had been so subtle that it had
bypassed me to that day.
He then reminded me of all the nonsensical joking tasks that he used to
give me every time I had
been at his house. Absurd chores such as arranging firewood in
patterns, encircling his house
with an unbroken chain of concentric circles drawn in the dirt with my
finger, sweeping debris
from one place to another, and so forth. The tasks also included acts
that I had to perform by
myself at home, such as wearing a black cap, or tying my left shoe
first, or fastening my belt
from right to left.
The reason I had never taken them in any other vein except as jokes was
that he would
invariably tell me to forget about them after I had established them as
regular routines.
As he recapitulated all the tasks he had given me I realized that by
making me perform
senseless routines he had indeed implanted in me the idea of acting
without really expecting
anything in return.
"Stopping the internal dialogue is, however, the key to the sorcerers'
world," he said. "The rest
of the activities are only props; all they do is accelerate the effect
of stopping the internal
dialogue."
He said that there were two major activities or techniques used to
accelerate the stopping of
the internal dialogue: erasing personal history and dreaming. He
reminded me that during the
early stages of my apprenticeship he had given me a number of specific
methods for changing
my "personality." I had recorded them in my notes and had forgotten
about them for years until I
realized their importance. I hose specific methods seemed at first to
be highly idiosyncratic
devices to coerce me into modifying my behavior.
He explained that the art of a teacher was to deviate the apprentice's
attention from the main
issues. A poignant example of that art was the fact that I had not
realized until that day that he
had actually tricked me into learning a most crucial point: to act
without expecting rewards.
He said that in line with that rationale he had rallied my interest
around the idea of seeing,
which, properly understood, was the act of dealing directly with the
nagual, an act that was an
unavoidable end result of the teachings but an unattainable task as a
task per se.
"What was the point of tricking me that way?" I asked.
"Sorcerers are convinced that all of us are a bunch of nincompoops," he
said. "We can never
relinquish our crummy control voluntarily, thus we have to be tricked."
His contention was that by making me focus my attention on a pseudo
task, learning to see, he
had successfully accomplished two things. First he had outlined the
direct encounter with the
nagual, without mentioning it, and second he had tricked me into
considering the real issues of
132
his teachings as inconsequential affairs. Erasing personal history and
dreaming were never as
important to me as seeing. I regarded them as very entertaining
activities. I even thought that they
were the practices for which I had the greatest facility.
"Greatest facility," he said mockingly when he heard my comments. "A
teacher must not
leave anything to chance. I've told you that you were correct in
feeling that you were being
tricked. The problem was that you were convinced that that tricking was
directed at fooling your
reason. For me, tricking meant to distract your attention, or to trap
it as the case required."
He looked at me with squinting eyes and pointed all around us with a
sweeping gesture of his
arm.
"The secret of all this is one's attention," he said.
"What do you mean, don Juan?"
"All of this exists only because of our attention. This very rock where
we're sitting is a rock
because we have been forced to give our attention to it as a rock."
I wanted him to explain that idea. He laughed and raised an accusing
finger at me.
"This is a recapitulation," he said. "We'll get to that later."
He asserted that because of his decoy maneuver I became interested in
erasing personal
history and dreaming. He said that the effects of those two techniques
were ultimately
devastating if they were exercised in their totality, and that then his
concern was the concern of
every teacher, not to let his apprentice do anything that would plunge
him into aberration and
morbidity.
"Erasing personal history and dreaming should only be a help," he said.
"What any apprentice
needs to buffer him is temperance and strength. That's why a teacher
introduces the warrior's
way, or living like a warrior. This is the glue that joins together
everything in a sorcerer's world.
Bit by bit a teacher must forge and develop it. Without the sturdiness
and level-headedness of the
warrior's way there is no possibility of withstanding the path of
knowledge."
Don Juan said that learning the warrior's way was an instance when the
apprentice's attention
had to be trapped rather than deviated, and that he had trapped my
attention by pushing me out of
my ordinary circumstances every time I had gone to see him. Our roaming
around the desert and
the mountains had been the means to accomplish that.
The maneuver of altering the context of my ordinary world by taking me
for hikes and
hunting was another instance of his system that had bypassed me.
Context disarrangement meant
that I did not know the ropes and my attention had to be focused on
everything don Juan did.
"What a trick! Uh?" he said and laughed.
I laughed with awe. I had never realized that he was so aware.
He then enumerated his steps in guiding and trapping my attention. When
he had finished his
account he added that a teacher had to take into consideration the
personality of the apprentice,
and that in my case he had to be careful because I was violent and
would have thought nothing of
killing myself out of despair.
"What a preposterous fellow you are, don Juan," I said in jest, and he
exploded in a giant
laugh.
He explained that in order to help erase personal history three other
techniques were taught.
They were: losing self-importance, assuming responsibility, and using
death as an adviser. The
idea was that, without the beneficial effect of those three techniques,
erasing personal history
would involve the apprentice in being shifty, evasive and unnecessarily
dubious about himself
and his actions.
Don Juan asked me to tell him what had been the most natural reaction I
had had in moments
of stress, frustration and disappointment before I became an
apprentice. He said that his own
133
reaction had been wrath. I told him that mine had been self-pity.
"Although you're not aware of it, you had to work your head off to make
that feeling a natural
one," he said. "By now there is no way for you to recollect the immense
effort that you needed to
establish self-pity as a feature of your island. Self-pity bore witness
to everything you did. It was
just at your fingertips, ready to advise you. Death is considered by a
warrior to be a more
amenable adviser, which can also be brought to bear witness on
everything one does, just like
self-pity, or wrath. Obviously, after an untold struggle you had
learned to feel sorry for yourself.
But you can also learn, in the same way, to feel your impending end,
and thus you can learn to
have the idea of your death at your fingertips. As an adviser,
self-pity is nothing in comparison to
death."
Don Juan pointed out then that there was seemingly a contradiction in
the idea of change; on
the one hand, the sorcerers' world called for a drastic transformation,
and on the other, the
sorcerers' explanation said that the island of the tonal was complete
and not a single element of
it could be removed. Change, then, did not mean obliterating anything
but rather altering the use
assigned to those elements.
"Take self-pity for instance," he said. "There is no way to get rid of
it for good; it has a
definite place and character in your island, a definite facade which is
recognizable. Thus, every
time the occasion arises, self-pity becomes active. It has history. If
you then change the facade of
self-pity, you would have shifted its place of prominence."
I asked him to explain the meaning of his metaphors, especially the
idea of changing facades.
I understood it as perhaps the act of more than one role at the same
time.
"One changes the facade by altering the use of the elements of the
island," he replied. "Take
self-pity again. It was useful to you because you either felt important
and deserving of better
conditions, better treatment, or because you were unwilling to assume
responsibility for the acts
that brought you to the state that elicited self-pity, or because you
were incapable of bringing the
idea of your impending death to witness your acts and advise you.
"Erasing personal history and its three companion techniques are the
sorcerers' means for
changing the facade of the elements of the island. For instance, by
erasing your personal history,
you have denied use to self-pity; in order for self-pity to work you
had to feel important,
irresponsible, and immortal. When those feelings were altered in some
way, it was no longer
possible for you to feel sorry for yourself.
"The same was true with all the other elements which you've changed on
your island. Without
using those four techniques you never could've succeeded in changing
them. But changing
facades means only that one has assigned a secondary place to a
formerly important element.
Your self-pity is still a feature of your island; it will be there in
the back in the same way that the
idea of your impending death, or your humbleness, or your
responsibility for your acts were
there, without ever being used."
Don Juan said that once all those techniques had been presented, the
apprentice arrived at a
crossroad. Depending on his sensibility, the apprentice did one of two
things. He either took the
recommendations and suggestions made by his teacher at their face
value, acting without
expecting rewards; or he took everything as a joke or an aberration.
I remarked that in my own case I was confused by the word "techniques."
I always expected a
set of precise directions, but he had given me only vague suggestions;
and I was incapable of
taking them seriously or acting in accordance with his stipulations.
"That was your mistake," he said. "I had to decide then whether or not
to use power plants.
You could've used those four techniques to clean and reorder your
island of the tonal. They
would've led you to the nagual. But not all of us are capable of
reacting to simple
recommendations. You, and I for that matter, needed something else to
shake us; we needed those
134
power plants."
It had indeed taken me years to realize the importance of those early
suggestions made by don
Juan. The extraordinary effect that psychotropic plants had had on me
was what gave me the bias
that their use was the key feature of the teachings. I held on to that
conviction and it was only in
the later years of my apprenticeship that I realized that the
meaningful transformations and
findings of sorcerers were always done in states of sober consciousness.
"What would have happened if I had taken your recommendations
seriously?" I asked.
"You would have gotten to the nagual" he replied.
"But would I have gotten to the nagual without a benefactor?"
"Power provides according to your impeccability," he said. "If you had
seriously used those
four techniques, you would've stored enough personal power to find a
benefactor. You would've
been impeccable and power would have opened all the necessary avenues.
That is the rule."
"Why didn't you give me more time?" I asked.
"You had all the time you needed," he said. "Power showed me the way.
One night I gave you
a riddle to work out; you had to find your beneficial spot in front of
the door of my house. That
night you performed marvelously under pressure and in the morning you
fell asleep over a very
special rock that I had put there. Power showed me that you had to be
pushed mercilessly or you
wouldn't do a thing."
"Did the power plants help me?" I asked.
"Certainly," he said. "They opened you up by stopping your view of the
world. In this respect
power plants have the same effect on the tonal as the right way of
walking. Both flood it with
information and force the internal dialogue to come to a stop. The
plants are excellent for that,
but very costly. They cause untold damage to the body. This is their
drawback, especially with
the devil's weed."
"If you knew that they were so dangerous, why did you give me so many
of them, so many
times?" I asked.
He assured me that the details of the procedure were decided by power
itself. He said that
although the teachings were supposed to cover the same issues with all
apprentices, the order was
different for each one, and that he had gotten repeated indications
that I needed a great deal of
coercion in order to bother with anything.
"I was dealing with a sassy immortal being that had no respect for his
life or his death," he
said, laughing.
I brought up the fact that he had described and discussed those plants
in terms of
anthropomorphic qualities. His references to them were always as if the
plants had personalities.
He replied that that was a prescribed means for deviating the
apprentice's attention away from the
real issue, which was stopping the internal dialogue.
"If they are used only to stop the internal dialogue, what's their
connection with the ally?" I
asked.
"That's a difficult point to explain," he said. "Those plants lead the
apprentice directly to the
nagual, and the ally is an aspect of it. We function at the center
reason exclusively, regardless of
who we are or where we come from. Reason can naturally account in one
way or another for
everything that happens within its view of the world. The ally is
something which is outside of
that view, outside the realm of reason. It can be witnessed only at the
center of will at times when
our ordinary view has stopped, therefore it is properly the nagual.
Sorcerers, however, can learn
to perceive the ally in a most intricate way, and in doing so they get
too deeply immersed in a
new view. So, in order to protect you from that fate, I did not
emphasize the ally as sorcerers
usually do. Sorcerers have learned after generations of using power
plants to account in their
135
views for everything that is accountable about them. I would say that
sorcerers, by using their
will, have succeeded in enlarging their views of the world. My teacher
and benefactor were the
clearest examples of that. They were men of great power, but they were
not men of knowledge.
They never broke the bounds of their enormous views and thus never
arrived at the totality of
themselves, yet they knew about it. It wasn't that they lived aberrant
lives, claiming things beyond
their reach; they knew that they had missed the boat and that only at
their death would the total
mystery be revealed to them. Sorcery had given them only a glimpse but
never the real means to
get to that evasive totality of oneself.
"I gave you enough of the sorcerers' view without letting you get
hooked by it. I said that only
if one pits two views against each other can one weasel between them to
arrive at the real world. I
meant that one can arrive at the totality of oneself only when one
fully understands that the world
is merely a view, regardless of whether that view belongs to an
ordinary man or to a sorcerer.
"Here is where I varied from the tradition. After a lifelong struggle I
know that what matters is
not to learn a new description but to arrive at the totality of
oneself. One should get to the nagual
without maligning the tonal, and above all, without injuring one's
body. You took those plants
following the exact steps I followed myself. The only difference was
that instead of plunging you
into them I stopped when I judged that you had stored enough views of
the nagual. That is the
reason why I never wanted to discuss your encounters with power plants,
or let you talk
obsessively about them; there was no point in elaborating about the
unspeakable. Those were true
excursions into the nagual, the unknown."
I mentioned that my need to talk about my perceptions under the
influence of psychotropic
plants was due to an interest in elucidating a hypothesis of my own. I
was convinced that with the
aid of such plants he had provided me with memories of inconceivable
ways of perceiving. Those
memories, which at the time I experienced them may have seemed
idiosyncratic and disconnected
from anything meaningful, were later assembled into units of meaning. I
knew that don Juan had
artfully guided me each time, and that any assembling of meaning was
made under his guidance.
"I don't want to emphasize those events, or explain them," he said
dryly. "The act of dwelling
on explanations will put us right back where we don't want to be; that
is, we'll be thrown back
into a view of the world, this time a much larger view."
Don Juan said that after the apprentice's internal dialogue has been
stopped by the effect of
power plants, an unavoidable impasse develops. The apprentice begins to
have second thoughts
about his whole apprenticeship. In don Juan's opinion, even the most
willing apprentice at that
point would suffer a serious loss of interest.
"Power plants shake the tonal and threaten the solidity of the whole
island," he said. "It is at
this time that the apprentice retreats, and wisely so; he wants to get
out of the whole mess. It is
also at this time that the teacher sets up his most artful trap, the
worthy opponent. This trap has
two purposes. First, it enables the teacher to hold his apprentice, and
second, it enables the
apprentice to have a point of reference for further use. The trap is a
maneuver that brings forth a
worthy opponent into the arena. Without the aid of a worthy opponent,
who's not really an enemy
but a thoroughly dedicated adversary, the apprentice has no possibility
of continuing on the path
of knowledge. The best of men would quit at this point if it were left
up to them to decide. I
brought to you as a worthy opponent the finest warrior one can find, la
Catalina."
Don Juan was talking about a time, years before, when he had led me
into a long-range battle
with an Indian sorceress.
"I put you in bodily contact with her," he proceeded. "I chose a woman
because you trust
women. To disarrange that trust was very difficult for her. She
confessed to me years later that
she would've liked to quit, because she liked you. But she's a great
warrior and in spite of her
feelings she nearly blasted you off the planet. She disarranged your
tonal so intensely that it was
136
never the same again. She actually changed features on the face of your
island so deeply that her
acts sent you into another realm. One may say that she could've become
your benefactor herself,
had it not been that you were not cut out to be a sorcerer like she is.
There was something amiss
between you two. You were incapable of being afraid of her. You nearly
lost your marbles one
night when she accosted you, but in spite of that you were attracted to
her. She was a desirable
woman to you no matter how scared you were. She knew that. I caught you
one day in town
looking at her, shaking in your boots with fear and yet drooling at her.
"Because of the acts of a worthy opponent, then, an apprentice can be
either blasted to pieces
or changed radically. La Catalina's actions with you, since they did
not kill you - not because she
did not try hard enough but because you were durable - had a beneficial
effect on you, and also
provided you with a decision.
"The teacher uses the worthy opponent to force the apprentice into the
choice of his life. The
apprentice must choose between the warrior's world and his ordinary
world. But no decision is
possible unless the apprentice understands the choice; thus a teacher
must have a thoroughly
patient and understanding attitude and must lead his man with a sure
hand to that choice, and
above all he must make sure that his apprentice chooses the world and
the life of a warrior. I
accomplished this by asking you to help me overcome la Catalina. I told
you she was about to kill
me and that I needed your help to get rid of her. I gave you fair
warning about the consequences
of your choice and plenty of time to decide whether or not to make it."
I clearly remembered that don Juan had set me loose that day. He told
me that if I did not want
to help him I was free to leave and never come back. I felt at that
moment that I was at liberty to
choose my own course and had no further obligation to him.
I left his house and drove away with a mixture of sadness and
happiness. I was sad to leave
don Juan and yet I was happy to be through with all his disconcerting
activities. I thought of Los
Angeles and my friends and all the routines of my daily life which were
waiting for me, those
little routines that had always given me so much pleasure. For a while
I felt euphoric. The
weirdness of don Juan and his life was behind me and I was free.
My happy mood did not last long, however. My desire to leave don Juan's
world was
untenable. My routines had lost their power. I tried to think of
something I wanted to do in Los
Angeles, but there was nothing. Don Juan had once told me that I was
afraid of people and had
learned to defend myself by not wanting anything. He said that not
wanting anything was a
warrior's finest attainment. In my stupidity, however, I had enlarged
the sensation of not wanting
anything and made it lapse into not liking anything. Thus, my life was
boring and empty.
He was right and as I zoomed north on the highway the full impact of my
own unsuspected
madness finally hit me. I began to realize the scope of my choice. I
was actually leaving a
magical world of continual renewal for my soft, boring life in Los
Angeles. I began to recollect
my empty days. I remembered one Sunday in particular. I had felt
restless all day with nothing to
do. No friends had come to visit me. No one had invited me to a party.
The people I wanted to see
were not home, and worst of all, I had seen all the movies in town. In
the late afternoon, in
ultimate despair, I searched the list of movies again and found one I
had never wanted to see. It
was being shown in a town thirty-five miles away. I went to see it, and
hated it, but even that was
better than having nothing to do.
Under the impact of don Juan's world, I had changed. For one thing,
since I had met him I had
not had time to be bored. That in itself was enough for me; don Juan
had indeed made sure I
would choose the warrior's world. I turned around and drove back to his
house.
"What would have happened if I had chosen to go back to Los Angeles?" I
asked.
"That would have been an impossibility," he said. "That choice didn't
exist. All that was
137
required of you was to allow your tonal to become aware of having
decided to join the world of
sorcerers. The tonal doesn't know that decisions are in the realm of
the nagual. When we think
we decide, all we're doing is acknowledging that something beyond our
understanding has set up
the frame of our so-called decision, and all we do is to acquiesce.
"In the life of a warrior there is only one thing, one issue alone
which is really undecided: how
far one can go on the path of knowledge and power. That is an issue
which is open and no one
can predict its outcome. I once told you that the freedom a warrior has
is either to act impeccably
or to act like a nincompoop. Impeccability is indeed the only act which
is free and thus the true
measure of a warrior's spirit."
Don Juan said that after the apprentice had made his decision to join
the world of sorcerers,
the teacher gave him a pragmatic chore, a task that he had to fulfill
in his day-to-day life. He
explained that the task, which is designed to fit the apprentice's
personality, is usually a sort of
farfetched life situation, which the apprentice is supposed to get into
as a means of permanently
affecting his view of the world. In my own case, I understood the task
more as a lively joke than
A serious life situation. As time passed, however, it finally dawned on
me that I had to be earnest
about it.
"After the apprentice has been given his sorcery task he's ready for
another type of
instruction," he proceeded. "He is a warrior then. In your case, since
you were no longer an
apprentice, I taught you the three techniques that help dreaming:
disrupting the routines of life,
the gait of power, and not-doing. You were very consistent, dumb as an
apprentice and dumb as a
warrior. You dutifully wrote down everything I said and everything that
happened to you, but you
did not act exactly as I had told you to. So I still had to blast you
with power plants."
Don Juan then gave me a step-by-step rendition of how he had driven my
attention away from
dreaming, making me believe that the important problem was a very
difficult activity he had
called not-doing, which consisted of a perceptual game of focusing
attention on features of the
world that were ordinarily overlooked, such as the shadows of things.
Don Juan said that his
strategy had been to set not-doing apart by imposing the most strict
secrecy on it.
"Not-doing, like everything else, is a very important technique, but it
was not the main issue,"
he said. "You fell for the secrecy. You, a blabbermouth, having to keep
a secret!"
He laughed and said that he could imagine the troubles I must have gone
through to keep my
mouth shut.
He explained that disrupting routines, the gait of power, and not-doing
were avenues for
learning new ways of perceiving the world, and that they gave a warrior
an inkling of incredible
possibilities of action. Don Juan's idea was that the knowledge of a
separate and pragmatic world
of dreaming was made possible through the use of those three techniques.
"Dreaming is a practical aid devised by sorcerers," he said. "They were
not fools; they knew
what they were doing and sought the usefulness of the nagual by
training their tonal to let go for
a moment, so to speak, and then grab again. This statement doesn't make
sense to you. But that's
what you've been doing all along: training yourself to let go without
losing your marbles.
Dreaming, of course, is the crown of the sorcerers' efforts, the
ultimate use of the nagual''
He went through all the exercises of not-doing that he had made me
perform, the routines of
my daily life that he had isolated for disrupting, and all the
occasions when he had forced me to
engage in the gait of power.
"We're coming to the end of my recapitulation," he said. "Now we have
to talk about Genaro."
Don Juan said that there had been a very important omen the day I met
don Genaro. I told
him that I could not remember anything out of the ordinary. He reminded
me that on that day we
had been sitting on a bench in a park. He said that he had mentioned
earlier to me that he was
going to wait for a friend I had never met before, and then when the
friend appeared I singled him
138
out, without any hesitation, in the midst of a huge crowd. That was the
omen that made them
realize that don Genaro was my benefactor.
I remembered when he mentioned it that as we sat talking I had turned
around and seen a
small lean man who radiated an extraordinary vitality, or grace, or
simple gusto; he had just
turned a corner into the park. In a joking mood I told don Juan that
his friend was approaching us,
and that he was most certainly a sorcerer judging by the way he looked.
"Genaro recommended what to do with you from that day on," don Juan
proceeded. "As your
guide into the nagual, he gave you impeccable demonstrations, and every
time he performed an
act as a nagual you were left with a knowledge that defied and bypassed
your reason. He
disassembled your view of the world, although you are not aware of that
yet. Again in this
instance you behaved just like in the case of the power plants, you
needed more than was
necessary. A few of the nagual's onslaughts should be enough to
dismantle one's view; but even
to this day, after all the nagual's barrages, your view seems
invulnerable. Oddly enough, that's
your best feature.
"All in all, then, Genaro's job has been to lead you into the nagual.
But here we have a strange
question. What was being led into the nagual?"
He urged me with a movement of his eyes to answer the question.
"My reason?" I asked.
"No, reason is meaningless there," he replied. "Reason craps out in an
instant when it is out of
its safe narrow bounds."
"Then it was my tonal" I said.
"No, the tonal and the nagual are the two inherent parts of ourselves,"
he said dryly. "They
cannot be led into each other."
"My perception?" I asked.
"You've got it," he yelled as if I were a child giving the right
answer. "We're coming now to
the sorcerers' explanation. I've warned you already that it won't
explain anything and yet..." He
paused and looked at me with shiny eyes. "This is another of the
sorcerers' tricks," he said.
"What do you mean? What's the trick?" I asked with a touch of alarm.
"The sorcerers' explanation, of course," he replied. "You'll see that
for yourself. But let's
continue with it. Sorcerers say that we are inside a bubble. It is a
bubble into which we are placed
at the moment of our birth. At first the bubble is open, but then it
begins to close until it has
sealed us in. That bubble is our perception. We live inside that bubble
all of our lives. And what
we witness on its round walls is our own reflection."
He lowered his head and looked at me askance. He giggled.
"You're goofing," he said. "You're supposed to raise a point here."
I laughed. Somehow his warnings about the sorcerers' explanation plus
the realization of the
awesome range of his awareness had finally begun to take their toll on
me.
"What was the point I was supposed to raise?" I asked.
"If what we witness on the walls is our own reflection, then the thing
that's being reflected
must be the real thing," he said, smiling.
"That's a good point," I said in a joking tone.
My reason could easily follow that argument.
"The thing reflected is our view of the world," he said. "That view is
first a description, which
is given to us from the moment of our birth until all our attention is
caught by it and the
description becomes a view.
"The teacher's task is to rearrange the view, to prepare the luminous
being for the time when
the benefactor opens the bubble from the outside."
139
He went into another studied pause and made another remark about my
lack of attention
judged by my incapacity to make an appropriate comment or question.
"What should've been my question?" I asked.
"Why should the bubble be opened?" he replied. He laughed loudly and
patted my back when
I said, "That's a good question."
"Of course!" he exclaimed. "It has to be a good question for you, it's
one of your own.
"The bubble is opened in order to allow the luminous being a view of
his totality," he went on.
"Naturally this business of calling it a bubble is only a way of
talking, but in this case it is an
accurate way.
"The delicate maneuver of leading a luminous being into the totality of
himself requires that
the teacher work from inside the bubble and the benefactor from
outside. The teacher reorders the
view of the world. I have called that view the island of the tonal.
I've said that everything that we
are is on that island. The sorcerers' explanation says that the island
of the tonal is made by our
perception, which has been trained to focus on certain elements; each
of those elements and all of
them together form our view of the world. The job of a teacher, insofar
as the apprentice's
perception is concerned, consists of reordering all the elements of the
island on one half of the
bubble. By now you must have realized that cleaning and reordering the
island of the tonal means
regrouping all its elements on the side of reason. My task has been to
disarrange your ordinary
view, not to destroy it but to force it to rally on the side of reason.
You've done that better than
anyone I know."
He drew a