In the more than two years that elapsed between the time don Juan decided to teach me about the ally powers and the time he thought I was ready to learn about them in the pragmatic, participatory form he considered as learning, he gradually described the general features of the two allies in question.
He prepared me for the indispensable corollary of all the verbalizations, and the consolidation of all the teachings- the states of non-ordinary reality.
At first he talked about the ally powers in a very casual manner. The first references I have in my notes are interjected between other topics of conversation.
"The devil's weed [Jimson weed] was my benefactor's ally. It could have been mine also, but I didn't like her."
"Why didn't you like the devil's weed, don Juan?"
"She has a serious drawback."
"Is she inferior to other ally powers?"
"No. Don't get me wrong. She is as powerful as the best of allies, but there is something about her which I personally don't like."
"Can you tell me what it is?"
"She distorts men. She gives them a taste of power too soon without fortifying their hearts, and makes them domineering and unpredictable. She makes them weak in the middle of their great power."
"Isn't there any way to avoid that?"
"There is a way to overcome it, but not to avoid it. Whoever becomes the weed's ally must pay that price."
"How can one overcome that effect, don Juan?"
"The devil's weed has four heads: the root, the stem and leaves, the flowers, and the seeds. Each one of them is different, and whoever becomes her ally must learn about them in that order.
"The most important head is in the roots. The power of the devil's weed is conquered through the roots.
"The stem and leaves are the head that cures maladies; properly used, this head is a gift to mankind.
"The third head is in the flowers, and it is used to turn people crazy, or to make them obedient, or to kill them.
"The man whose ally is the weed never intakes the flowers, nor does he intake the stem and leaves, for that matter, except in cases of his own illness; but the roots and the seeds are always intaken; especially the seeds; they are the fourth head of the devil's weed and the most powerful of the four. My benefactor used to say the seeds are the 'sober head'; the only part that could fortify the heart of man.
"The devil's weed is hard with her protégés, he used to say, because she aims to kill them fast; a thing she ordinarily accomplishes before they can arrive at the secrets of the 'sober head'. There are, however, tales about men who have unravelled the secrets of the sober head. What a challenge for a man of knowledge!"
"Did your benefactor unravel such secrets?"
"No, he didn't."
"Have you met anyone who has done it?"
"No. But they lived at a time when that knowledge was important."
"Do you know anyone who has met such men ?"
"No, I don't."
"Did your benefactor know anyone?"
"He did."
"Why didn't he arrive at the secrets of the sober head?"
"To tame the devil's weed into an ally is one of the most difficult tasks I know. She never became one with me, for example, perhaps because I was never fond of her."
"Can you still use her as an ally in spite of not being fond of her?"
"I can: Nevertheless, I prefer not to. Maybe it will be different for you."
"Why is it called the devil's weed?"
Don Juan made a gesture of indifference, shrugged his shoulders, and remained quiet for some time. Finally he said that 'devil's weed' was her temporary name [su nombre de leche]. He also said there were other names for the devil's weed, but they were not to be used because the calling of a name was a serious matter, especially if one was learning to tame an ally power.
I asked him why the calling of a name was so serious a matter. He said names were reserved to be used only when one was calling for help- in moments of great stress and need- and he assured me that such moments happen sooner or later in the life of whoever seeks knowledge.
Today, during the afternoon, don Juan collected two Datura plants from the field.
Quite unexpectedly he had brought the subject of the devil's weed into our conversation, and then asked me to go with him to the hills and look for one.
We drove to the nearby mountains. I got a shovel out of the trunk and we walked into one of the canyons.
We walked for quite a while, wading through the chaparral [* chaparral- dense vegetation consisting of stunted trees or bushes] which grew thick in the soft, sandy dirt. He stopped next to a small plant with dark-green leaves, and big, whitish, bell-shaped flowers.
"This one," he said.
Immediately he started to shovel. I tried to help him but he refused with a strong shake of the head, and went on to dig a circular hole around the plant; a hole shaped like a cone, deep toward the outer edge and sloping into a mound in the centre of the circle. When he stopped digging he knelt close to the stem and with his fingers cleared the soft dirt around it, uncovering about four inches of a big, tuberous, forked root whose width contrasted markedly with the width of the stem, which was frail in comparison.
Don Juan looked at me and said the plant was a "male" because the root forked out from the exact point where it joined the stem. Then he stood up and started to walk away, looking for something.
"What are you looking for, don Juan?"
"I want to find a stick."
I began to look around, but he stopped me.
"Not you! You sit over there." He pointed to some rocks twenty feet away. "I will find it."
He came back after a while with a long, dry branch. Using it as a digging stick, he loosened the dirt carefully along the two diverging branches of the root. He cleaned around them to a depth of approximately two feet. As he dug deeper the dirt became so hard-packed that it was practically impossible to penetrate it with the stick.
He came to a halt and sat down to catch his breath. I sat next to him. We did not talk for a long time.
"Why don't you dig it out with the shovel?" I asked.
"It could cut and injure the plant. I had to get a stick that belonged to this area so that, if I had struck the root, the injury wouldn't have been as bad as one caused by a shovel or a foreign object."
"What kind of a stick did you get?"
"Any dry branch of the paloverde tree would do. If there are no dry branches you have to cut a fresh one."
"Can you use the branches of any other tree?"
"I told you, only paloverde and not any other."
"Why is that so, don Juan?"
"Because the devil's weed has very few friends, and paloverde is the only tree in this area which agrees with her- the only thing that grabs or hooks onto it [lo unico que prende]. If you damage the root with a shovel she will not grow for you when you replant her, but if you injure her with such a stick, chances are the plant will not even feel it."
"What are you going to do with the root now?"
"I'm going to cut it. You must leave me. Go find another plant and wait until I call you."
"Don't you want me to help you?"
"You may help me only if I ask you!"
I walked away and started to look for another plant in order to fight the strong desire to sneak around and watch him. After some time he joined me.
"Let us look for the female now," he said.
"How do you tell them apart?"
"The female is taller and grows above the ground: So it really looks like a small tree. The male is large and spreads out near the ground and looks more like a thick bush. Once we dig the female out you will see it has a single root going for quite a way before it becomes a fork. The male, on the other hand, has a forked root joined to the stem."
We looked together through the field of daturas. Then, pointing to a plant, he said, "That's a female."
He proceeded to dig it out as he had done the other. As soon as he had cleared the root I was able to see that the root conformed to his prediction. I left him again when he was about to cut it.
When we got to his house he opened the bundle in which he had put the Datura plants. He took the larger one first, the male, and washed it in a big metal tray. Very carefully he scrubbed all the dirt from the root, stem, and leaves.
After that meticulous cleaning, he severed the stem from the root by making a superficial incision around the width of their juncture with a short, serrated knife and by cracking them apart. He took the stem and separated every part of it by making individual heaps with leaves, flowers, and the prickly seedpods. He threw away everything that was dry or had been spoiled by worms, and kept only those parts that were complete. He tied together the two branches of the root with two pieces of string, cracked them in half after making a superficial cut at the joint, and got two pieces of root of equal size.
He then took a piece of rough burlap cloth and placed in it first the two pieces of root tied together. On top of them, he put the leaves in a neat bunch, then the flowers, the seedpods, and the stem. He folded the burlap and made a knot with the corners.
He repeated exactly the same steps with the other plant, the female, except that when he got to the root, instead of cutting it, he left the fork intact, like an upside-down letter Y. Then he placed all the parts in another cloth bundle. When he finished, it was already dark.
Today, late in the afternoon, we returned to the topic of the devil's weed.
"I think we should start with that weed again," don Juan said suddenly.
After a polite silence I asked him, "What are you going to do with the plants?"
"The plants I dug out and cut are mine," he said. "It is as though they were myself. With them, I'm going to teach you the way to tame the devil's weed."
"How will you do that?"
"The devil's weed is divided into portions [partes]. Each one of these portions is different: Each has its unique purpose and service."
He opened his left hand and measured on the floor from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his fourth finger.
"This is my portion. You will measure yours with your own hand. Now, to establish dominion over the devil's weed, you must begin by taking the first portion of the root. But since I have brought you to her, you must take the first portion of the root of my plant. I have measured it for you, so it is really my portion that you must take at the beginning."
He went inside the house and brought out one of the burlap bundles. He sat down and opened it. I noticed it was the male plant. I also noticed there was only one piece of root. He took the piece that was left from the original set of two and held it in front of my face.
"This is your first portion," he said. "I give it to you. I have cut it myself for you. I have measured it as my own. Now I give it to you."
For an instant, the thought that I would have to chew it like a carrot crossed my mind, but he placed it inside a small, white, cotton bag.
He walked to the back of the house. He sat there on the floor with his legs crossed, and with a round mano began to mash the root inside the bag. He worked it over a flat slab which served as a mortar. From time to time he washed the two stones, and kept the water in a small, flat, wooden dugout basin.
As he pounded he sang an unintelligible chant, very softly and monotonously. When he had mashed the root into a soft pulp inside the bag, he placed it in the wooden basin. He again placed the slab mortar and the pestle into the basin, filled it with water, and then carried it to a rectangular pig's trough set against the back fence.
He said the root had to soak all night, and had to be left outside the house so it would catch the night air (el sereno). "If tomorrow is a sunny, hot day, it will be an excellent omen," he said.
Thursday, September 7 was a very clear and hot day. Don Juan seemed very pleased with the good omen and repeated several times that the devil's weed had probably liked me. The root had soaked all night, and about 10:00 a.m. we walked to the back of the house. He took the basin out of the trough, placed it on the ground, and sat next to it.
He took the bag and rubbed it on the bottom of the basin. He held it a few inches above the water and squeezed its contents, then dropped the bag into the water. He repeated the same sequence three more times, then discarded the bag, tossing it into the trough, and left the basin in the hot sun.
We came back to it two hours later. He brought with him a medium-size kettle with boiling, yellowish water. He tipped the basin very carefully and emptied the top water, preserving the thick silt that had accumulated on the bottom. He poured the boiling water on the silt and left the basin in the sun again.
This sequence was repeated three times at intervals of more than an hour. Finally he poured out most of the water from the basin, tipped it to an angle to catch the late afternoon sun, and left it.
When we returned hours later, it was dark. On the bottom of the basin there was a layer of gummy substance. It resembled a batch of half-cooked starch; whitish or light grey. There was perhaps a full teaspoon of it. He took the basin inside the house, and while he put some water on to boil I picked out pieces of dirt the wind had blown into the silt. He laughed at me.
"That little dirt won't hurt anybody."
When the water was boiling he poured about a cup of it into the basin. It was the same yellowish water he had used before. It dissolved the silt, making a sort of milky substance.
"What kind of water is that, don Juan?"
"Water of fruits and flowers from the canyon."
He emptied the contents of the basin into an old clay mug that looked like a flowerpot. It was still very hot, so he blew on to it to cool it. He took a sip and handed me the mug.
"Drink now!" he said.
I took it automatically, and without deliberation drank all the water. It tasted somewhat bitter, although the bitterness was hardly noticeable. What was very outstanding was the pungent odour of the water. It smelled like cockroaches.
Almost immediately I began to sweat. I got very warm, and blood rushed to my ears. I saw a red spot in front of my eyes, and the muscles of my stomach began to contract in painful cramps. After a while, even though I felt no more pain, I began to get cold and perspiration literally soaked me.
Don Juan asked me if I saw blackness or black spots in front of my eyes. I told him I was seeing everything in red.
My teeth were chattering because of an uncontrollable nervousness that came to me in waves, as if radiating out from the middle of my chest.
Then he asked me if I was afraid. His questions seemed meaningless to me. I told him that I was obviously afraid, but he asked me again if I was afraid of her. I did not understand what he meant and I said yes. He laughed and said that I was not really afraid. He asked if I still saw red. All I was seeing was a huge red spot in front of my eyes.
I felt better after a while. Gradually the nervous spasms disappeared, leaving only an aching, pleasant tiredness and an intense desire to sleep. I couldn't keep my eyes open, although I could still hear don Juan's voice. I fell asleep. But the sensation of my being submerged in a deep red persisted all night. I even had dreams in red.
I woke up on Saturday about 3:00 p.m. I had slept almost two days. I had a mild headache and an upset stomach, and very sharp, intermittent pains in my intestines. Except for that, everything else was like an ordinary waking. I found don Juan sitting in front of his house dozing. He smiled at me.
"Everything went fine the other night," he said. "You saw red and that's all that is important."
"What would have happened if I had not seen red?"
"You would have seen black, and that is a bad sign."
"Why is it bad?"
"When a man sees black it means he is not made for the devil's weed, and he vomits his entrails out, all green and black."
"Would he die?"
"I don't think anyone would die, but he would be sick for a long time."
"What happens to those who see red?"
"They do not vomit, and the root gives them an effect of pleasure which means they are strong and of violent nature; something that the weed likes. That is the way she entices. The only bad point is that men end up as slaves to the devil's weed in return for the power she gives them. But those are matters over which we have no control. Man lives only to learn. And if he learns, it is because that is the nature of his lot; for good or bad."
"What shall I do next, don Juan?"
"Next you must plant a shoot [brote] that I have cut from the other half of the first portion of root. You took half of it the other night, and now the other half must be put into the ground. It has to grow and seed before you can undertake the real task of taming the plant."
"How will I tame her?"
"The devil's weed is tamed through the root. Step by step, you must learn the secrets of each portion of the root. You must intake them in order to learn the secrets and conquer the power."
"Are the different portions prepared in the same way you did the first one?"
"No, each portion is different"
"What are the specific effects of each portion?"
"I already said, each teaches a different form of power. What you took the other night is nothing yet. Anyone can do that. But only the brujo can take the deeper portions. I can't tell you what they do because I don't know yet whether she will take you. We must wait."
"When will you tell me, then?"
"Whenever your plant has grown and seeded."
"If the first portion can be taken by anyone, what is it used for?"
"In a diluted form it is good for all the matters of manhood: old people who have lost their vigour; or young men who are seeking adventures; or even women who want passion."
"You said the root is used for power only, but I see it's used for other matters besides power. Am I correct?"
He looked at me for a very long time, with a steadfast gaze that embarrassed me. I felt my question had made him angry, but I couldn't understand why.
"The weed is used only for power," he finally said in a dry, stern tone. "The man who wants his vigour back; the young people who seek to endure fatigue and hunger; the man who wants to kill another man; a woman who wants to be in heat- they all desire power. And the weed will give it to them!
"Do you feel you like her?" he asked after a pause.
"I feel a strange vigour," I said, and it was true. I had noticed it on awakening and I felt it then. It was a very peculiar sensation of discomfort, or frustration. My whole body moved and stretched with unusual lightness and strength. My arms and legs itched. My shoulders seemed to swell. The muscles of my back and neck made me feel like pushing, or rubbing, against trees. I felt I could demolish a wall by ramming it.
We did not speak any more. We sat on the porch for a white.
I noticed that don Juan was falling asleep. He nodded a couple of times, then he simply stretched his legs, lay on the floor with his hands behind his head, and went to sleep. I got up and went to the back of the house where I burned up my extra physical energy by clearing away the debris. I remembered his mentioning that he would like me to help him clean up at the back of his house.
Later, when he woke up and came to the back, I was more relaxed.
We sat down to eat, and in the course of the meal he asked me three times how I felt. Since this was a rarity, I finally asked, "Why do you worry about how I feel, don Juan? Do you expect me to have a bad reaction from drinking the juice?"
He laughed. I thought he was acting like a mischievous boy who has set up a prank and checks from time to time for the results. Still laughing, he said, "You don't look sick. A while ago you even talked rough to me."
"I did not, don Juan," I protested. "I don't ever recall talking to you like that." I was very serious on that point because I did not remember that I had ever felt annoyed with him.
"You came out in her defence," he said.
"In whose defence?"
"You were defending the devil's weed. You sounded like a lover already."
I was going to protest even more vigorously about it, but I stopped myself.
"I really did not realize I was defending her."
"Of course you did not. You don't even remember what you said, do you?"
"No, I don't. I must admit it."
"You see. The devil's weed is like that. She sneaks up on you like a woman. You are not even aware of it. All you care about is that she makes you feel good and powerful: the muscles swelling with vigour, the fists itching, the soles of the feet burning to run somebody down. When a man knows her, he really becomes full of cravings.
My benefactor used to say that the devil's weed keeps men who want power, and gets rid of those who can't handle it. But power was more common then. It was sought more avidly. My benefactor was a powerful man, and according to what he told me, his benefactor in turn was even more given to the pursuit of power. But in those days there was good reason to be powerful."
"Do you think there is no reason for power nowadays?"
"Power is all right for you now. You are young. You are not an Indian. Perhaps the devil's weed would be in good hands. You seem to have liked it. It made you feel strong. I felt all that myself. And yet I didn't like it."
"Can you tell me why, don Juan?"
"I don't like its power! There is no use for it any more. In other times, like those my benefactor told me about, there was reason to seek power. Men performed phenomenal deeds, were admired for their strength and feared and respected for their knowledge. My benefactor told me stories of truly phenomenal deeds that were performed long, long ago.
"But now we, the Indians, do not seek that power any more. Nowadays, the Indians use the weed to rub themselves. They use the leaves and flowers for other matters. They even say it cures their boils.
"But they do not seek its power; a power that acts like a magnet, more potent and more dangerous to handle as the root goes deeper into the ground. When one arrives to a depth of four yards- and they say some people have- one finds the seat of permanent power; power without end. Very few humans have done this in the past, and nobody has done it today.
"I'm telling you, the power of the devil's weed is no longer needed by us, the Indians. Little by little, I think we have lost interest, and now power does not matter any more. I myself do not seek it, and yet at one time when I was your age, I too felt its swelling inside me. I felt the way you did today, only five hundred times more strongly. I killed a man with a single blow of my arm. I could toss boulders, huge boulders not even twenty men could budge. Once I jumped so high I chopped the top leaves off the highest trees.
"But it was all for nothing! All I did was frighten the Indians- only the Indians. The rest who knew nothing about it did not believe it. They saw either a crazy Indian, or something moving at the top of the trees."
We were silent for a long time. I needed to say something.
"It was different when there were people in the world," he proceeded, "people who knew a man could become a mountain lion, or a bird, or that a man could simply fly. So I don't use the devil's weed any more. For what? To frighten the Indians? [ Para que? Para asustar a los indios?]"
And I saw him sad, and a deep empathy filled me. I wanted to say something to him, even if it was a platitude.
"Perhaps, don Juan, that is the fate of all men who want to know.
"Perhaps," he said quietly.
I didn't see don Juan sitting on his porch as I drove in. I thought it was strange. I called to him out loud and his daughter-in-law came out of the house.
"He's inside," she said.
I found he had dislocated his ankle several weeks before. He had made his own cast by soaking strips of cloth in a mush made with cactus and powdered bone. The strips, wrapped tightly around his ankle, had dried into a light, streamlined cast. It had the hardness of plaster, but not its bulkiness.
"How did it happen?" I asked.
His daughter-in-law, a Mexican woman from Yucatan who was tending him, answered me.
"It was an accident! He fell and nearly broke his foot!"
Don Juan laughed and waited until the woman had left the house before answering.
"Accident, my eye! I have an enemy nearby. A woman. "La Catalina!" She pushed me during a moment of weakness and I fell."
"Why did she do that?"
"She wanted to kill me, that's why."
"Was she here with you?"
"Yes!"
"Why did you let her in?"
"I didn't. She flew in."
"I beg your pardon!"
"She is a blackbird [chanate]. And so effective at that. I was caught by surprise. She has been trying to finish me off for a long while. This time she got real close."
"Did you say she is a blackbird? I mean, is she a bird?"
"There you go again with your questions. She is a blackbird! The same way I'm a crow. Am I a man or a bird? I'm a man who knows how to become a bird. But going back to "la Catalina", she is a fiendish witch! Her intent to kill me is so strong that I can hardly fight her off. The blackbird came all the way into my house and I couldn't stop it."
"Can you become a bird, don Juan?"
"Yes! But that's something we'll take up later."
"Why does she want to kill you?"
"Oh, there's an old problem between us. It got out of hand and now it looks as if I will have to finish her off before she finishes me."
"Are you going to use witchcraft?" I asked with great expectations.
"Don't be silly. No witchcraft would ever work on her. I have other plans! I'll tell you about them some day."
"Can your ally protect you from her?"
"No! The little smoke only tells me what to do. Then I must protect myself."
"How about Mescalito? Can he protect you from her?"
"No! Mescalito is a teacher, not a power to be used for personal reasons."
"How about the devil's weed?"
"I've already said that I must protect myself, following the directions of my ally the smoke. And as far as I know, the smoke can do anything. If you want to know about any point in question, the smoke will tell you. And it will give you not only knowledge, but also the means to proceed. It's the most marvellous ally a man could have."
"Is the smoke the best possible ally for everybody?"
"It's not the same for everybody. Many fear it and won't touch it, or even get close to it. The smoke is like everything else: It wasn't made for all of us."
"What kind of smoke is it, don Juan?"
"The smoke of diviners!"
There was a noticeable reverence in his voice- a mood I had never detected before.
"I will begin by telling you exactly what my benefactor said to me when he began to teach me about it; although at that time, like yourself now, I couldn't possibly have understood. "The devil's weed is for those who bid for power. The smoke is for those who want to watch and see." And in my opinion, the smoke is peerless. Once a man enters into its field, every other power is at his command. It's magnificent!
Of course, it takes a lifetime. It takes years alone to become acquainted with its two vital parts: the pipe and the smoke mixture. The pipe was given to me by my benefactor, and after so many years of fondling it, it has become mine. It has grown into my hands. To turn it over to your hands, for instance, will be a real task for me, and a great accomplishment for you- if we succeed!
The pipe will feel the strain of being handled by someone else; and if one of us makes a mistake, there won't be any way to prevent the pipe from bursting open by its own force, or escaping from our hands to shatter, even if it falls on a pile of straw. If that ever happens, it would mean the end of us both- particularly of me. The smoke would turn against me in unbelievable ways."
"How could it turn against you if it's your ally?"
My question seemed to have altered his flow of thoughts. He didn't speak for a long time.
"The difficulty of the ingredients," he proceeded suddenly, "makes the smoke mixture one of the most dangerous substances I know. No one can prepare it without being coached. It is deadly poisonous to anyone except the smoke's protégé! [* protégé- a person who receives support and protection from an influential patron who furthers the protégé's career]
"Pipe and mixture ought to be treated with intimate care. And the man attempting to learn must prepare himself by leading a hard, quiet life. Its effects are so dreadful that only a very strong man can stand the smallest puff. Everything is terrifying and confusing at the outset, but every new puff makes things more precise. And suddenly the world opens up anew! Unimaginable! When this happens the smoke has become one's ally, and will resolve any question by allowing one to enter into inconceivable worlds.
"This is the smoke's greatest property- its greatest gift- and it performs its function without hurting in the least. I call the smoke a true ally!"
As usual, we were sitting in front of his house, where the dirt floor is always clean and packed hard. He suddenly got up and went inside the house. After a few moments he returned with a narrow bundle and sat down again.
"This is my pipe," he said.
He leaned over towards me and showed me a pipe he drew out of a sheath made of green canvas. It was perhaps nine or ten inches long. The stem was made of reddish wood. It was plain; without ornamentation. The bowl also seemed to be made of wood, but it was rather bulky in comparison with the thin stem. It had a sleek finish, and was dark grey; almost charcoal.
He held the pipe in front of my face. I thought he was handing it over to me. I stretched out my hand to take it, but he quickly drew it back.
"This pipe was given to me by my benefactor," he said. "In turn I will pass it on to you, but first you must get to know it. Every time you come here I will give it to you. Begin by touching it. Hold it very briefly at first until you and the pipe get used to each other. Then put it in your pocket, or perhaps inside your shirt. And finally put it to your mouth. All this should be done little by little in a slow, careful way. When the bond has been established [la amistad esta hecha], you will smoke from it. If you follow my advice and don't rush, the smoke may become your preferred ally too."
He handed me the pipe, but without letting go of it. I stretched my right arm towards it.
"With both hands," he said.
I touched the pipe with both hands for a very brief moment. He did not extend it to me all the way so that I could grasp it, but only far enough for me to touch it. Then he pulled it back.
"The first step is to like the pipe. That takes time!"
"Can the pipe dislike me?"
"No. The pipe cannot dislike you, but you must learn to like it so that when the time of smoking comes for you, the pipe will help you to be unafraid."
"What do you smoke, don Juan?"
"This!"
He opened his collar, and exposed to view a small bag he kept under his shirt which hung from his neck like a medallion. He brought it out, untied it, and very carefully poured some of its contents into the palm of his hand.
As far as I could tell, the mixture looked like finely shredded tea leaves varying in colour from dark brown to light green; with a few specks of bright yellow.
He returned the mixture to the bag, closed the bag, tied it with a leather string, and put it under his shirt again.
"What kind of mixture is it?"
"There are lots of things in it. To get all the ingredients is a very difficult undertaking. One must travel afar. The little mushrooms [los honguitos] needed to prepare the mixture grow only at certain times of the year, and only in certain places."
"Do you have a different mixture for each type of aid you need?"
"No! There is only one smoke, and there is no other like it."
He pointed to the bag hanging against his chest, and lifted the pipe which was resting between his legs.
"These two are one! One cannot go without the other. This pipe and the secret of this mixture belonged to my benefactor. They were handed down to him in the same way my benefactor gave them to me. The mixture, although difficult to prepare, is replenishable. Its secret lies in its ingredients, and in the way they are treated and mixed.
"The pipe, on the other hand, is a lifetime affair. It must be looked after with infinite care. It is hardy and strong, but it should never be struck or knocked about. It should be handled with dry hands, never when the hands are sweaty, and should be used only when one is alone. And no one- absolutely no one- should ever see it unless you mean to give it to somebody. That is what my benefactor taught me, and that is the way I have dealt with the pipe all my life."
"What would happen if you should lose or break the pipe?"
He shook his head very slowly, and looked at me.
"I would die!"
"Are all the sorcerers' pipes like yours?"
"Not all of them have pipes like mine. But I know some men who do."
"Can you yourself make a pipe like this one, don Juan?" I insisted. "Suppose you did not have it: How could you give me one if you wanted to do so?"
"If I didn't have the pipe, I could not- nor would I want to- give one. I would give you something else instead."
He seemed to be somehow cross at me. He placed his pipe very carefully inside the sheath which must have been lined with a soft material because the pipe, which fitted tightly, slid in very smoothly. He went inside the house to put his pipe away.
"Are you angry at me, don Juan?" I asked when he returned. He seemed surprised at my question.
"No! I'm never angry at anybody! No human being can do anything important enough for that. You get angry at people when you feel that their acts are important. I don't feel that way any longer."
The specific time to replant the 'shoot', as don Juan called the root, was not set, although it was supposed to be the next step in taming the plant-power.
I arrived at don Juan's house on Saturday, December 23, early in the afternoon. We sat in silence for some time, as usual. The day was warm and cloudy. It had been months since he had given me the first portion.
"It is time to return the weed to the earth," he said suddenly. "But first I am going to fix a protection for you. You will keep it and guard it, and it is for you alone to see.
"Since I am going to fix it, I will also see it. That is not good because, as I told you, I am not fond of the devil's weed. We are not one. But my memory will not live long: I am too old. You must keep it from the eyes of others, however, because as long as their memory of having seen it lasts, the power of the protection is harmed."
He went into his room and pulled three burlap bundles out from under an old straw mat. He came back to the porch and sat down.
After a long silence he opened one bundle. It was the female Datura he had collected with me. All the leaves, flowers, and seedpods that he had stacked up before were dry. He took the long piece of root shaped like the letter Y and tied the bundle again.
The root had dried and shrivelled and the bars of the fork had become more widely separated and more contorted. He put the root on his lap, opened his leather pouch, and pulled out his knife. He held the dry root in front of me.
"This part is for the head," he said, and made the first incision on the tail of the Y; which in an upside-down position resembled the shape of a man with his legs spread out.
"This is for the heart," he said, and cut close to the joint of the Y. Next he chopped the tips of the root; leaving about three inches of wood on each bar of the Y. Then, slowly and patiently he carved the shape of a man.
The root was dry and fibrous. In order to carve it, don Juan made two incisions and peeled the fibres between them to the depth of the cuts. Nevertheless, when he came to details, he chiselled the wood, as when he shaped the arms and the hands. The final product was a wiry figurine of a man, arms folded over the chest and hands in a clasping position.
Don Juan got up and walked to a blue agave growing in front of the house next to the porch. He took the hard thorn of one of the center, pulpy leaves, bent it, and rotated it three or four times. The circular motion almost detached it from the leaf; it hung loose.
He bit on it, or rather, he held it between his teeth, and yanked it out. The thorn came out from the pulp, bringing with it a white tail, two feet long. Still holding the thorn between his teeth, don Juan twisted the fibres together between the palms of his hands and made a string, which he wrapped around the figurine's legs to bring them together. He encircled the lower part of the body until the string was all used up; then very skillfully he worked the thorn like an awl inside the front part of the body under the folded arms, until the sharp tip emerged as though popping out of the figurine's hands. He used his teeth again and, by pulling gently, brought the thorn nearly all the way out. It looked like a long spear protruding from the figure's chest.
Without looking at the figure any more, don Juan placed it inside his leather pouch. He seemed exhausted from the effort. He lay down on the floor and fell asleep.
It was already dark when he woke up. We ate the groceries I had brought him and sat on the porch for a while longer. Then don Juan walked to the back of the house, carrying the three burlap bundles. He cut twigs and dry branches and started a fire.
We sat in front of it comfortably, and he opened all three bundles. Besides the one containing the dry pieces of the female plant, there was another with all that was left of the male plant, and a third, bulky one containing green, freshly cut pieces of Datura.
Don Juan went to the pig's trough and came back with a stone mortar, a very deep one that looked more like a pot whose bottom ended in a soft curve. He made a shallow hole in the dirt, and set the mortar firmly on the ground. He put more dry twigs on the fire.
Then he took the two bundles with the dry pieces of male and female plants and emptied them into the mortar all at once. He shook the burlap to make sure that all the debris had fallen into the mortar. From the third bundle he extracted two fresh pieces of Datura root.
"I am going to prepare them just for you," he said.
"What kind of a preparation is it, don Juan?"
"One of these pieces comes from a male plant, the other from a female plant. This is the only time the two plants should be put together. The pieces come from a depth of one yard."
He mashed them inside the mortar with even strokes of the pestle. [* pestle- a club-shaped hand tool for grinding and mixing substances in a mortar] As he did so, he chanted in a low voice, which sounded like a rhythmless, monotonous hum. The words were unintelligible to me. He was absorbed in his task.
When the roots were completely mashed he took some Datura leaves from the bundle. They were clean and freshly cut, and all were intact and free of wormholes and cuts. He dropped them into the mortar one at a time. He took a handful of Datura flowers and dropped them also into the mortar in the same deliberate manner. I counted fourteen of each. Then he got a bunch of fresh, green seedpods which had all their spikes and were not open. I could not count them because he dropped them into the mortar all at once, but I assumed that there were also fourteen of them. He added three stems of Datura without any leaves. They were dark red and clean and seemed to have belonged to large plants, judging by their multiple ramifications.
After all these items had been put into the mortar, he mashed them to a pulp with the same even strokes. At a certain moment he tipped the mortar over, and with his hand scooped the mixture into an old pot. He stretched out his hand to me, and I thought he wanted me to dry it. Instead, he took my left hand and with a very fast motion separated the middle and fourth fingers as far as he could. Then, with the point of his knife, he stabbed me right in between the two fingers and ripped downwards on the skin of the fourth finger. He acted with so much skill and speed that when I jerked my hand away it was deeply cut, and the blood was flowing abundantly. He grabbed my hand again, placed it over the pot, and squeezed it to force more blood out.
My arm got numb. I was in a state of shock- strangely cold and rigid, with an oppressive sensation in my chest and ears. I felt I was sliding down on my seat. I was fainting! He let go my hand and stirred the contents of the pot. When I recovered from the shock, I was really angry with him. It took me quite some time to regain my composure.
He set up three stones around the fire and placed the pot on top of them. To all the ingredients he added something that I took to be a big chunk of carpenter's glue; and a pot of water, and let all that boil. Datura plants have by themselves a very peculiar odour. Combined with the carpenter's glue which gave off a strong odour when the mixture began to boil, they created so pungent a vapour that I had to fight not to vomit.
The mix boiled for a long time as we sat there motionless in front of it. At times, when the wind blew the vapour in my direction, the stench enveloped me, and I held my breath in an effort to avoid it.
Don Juan opened his leather pouch and took the figurine out. He handed it to me carefully and told me to place it inside the pot without burning my hands. I let it slip gently into the boiling mush. He got out his knife, and for a second I thought he was going to slash me again. Instead, he pushed the figurine with the tip of the knife and sank it.
He watched the mush boil for a while longer, and then began to clean the mortar. I helped him. When we had finished he set the mortar and pestle against the fence. We went inside the house, and the pot was left on the stones all night.
The next morning at dawn don Juan instructed me to pull the figurine out of the glue and hang it from the roof facing the east; to dry in the sun. At noon it was stiff as a wire. The heat had sealed the glue, and the green colour of the leaves had mixed with it. The figurine had a glossy, eerie finish.
Don Juan asked me to get the figurine down. Then he handed me a leather pouch he had made out of an old suede jacket I had brought for him some time before. The pouch looked like the one he owned himself. The only difference was that his was made of soft, brown leather.
"Put your 'image' inside the pouch and close it," he said.
He did not look at me, and deliberately kept his head turned away. Once I had the figurine inside the pouch, he gave me a carrying net, and told me to put the clay pot inside the net.
We walked to my car. He took the net from my hands, and fastened it onto the open lid of the glove compartment.
"Come with me," he said.
I followed him. He walked around the house, making a complete clockwise circle. He stopped at the porch and circled the house again, this time going counterclockwise, and again returning to the porch. He stood motionless for some time, and then sat down.
I was conditioned to believe that everything he did had some meaning. I was wondering about the significance of circling the house when he said, "Hey! I have forgotten where I put it."
I asked him what he was looking for. He said he had forgotten where he had placed the shoot I was to replant. We walked around the house once more before he remembered where it was.
He showed me a small glass jar on a piece of board nailed to the wall below the roof. The jar contained the other half of the first portion of the Datura root. The shoot had an incipient growth of leaves at its top end. The jar contained a small amount of water, but no soil.
"Why doesn't it have any soil?" I asked.
"All soils are not the same, and the devil's weed must know only the soil on which she will live and grow. And now it is time to return her to the ground before the worms damage her."
"Can we plant her here near the house?" I asked.
"No! No! Not around here. She must be returned to a place of your liking."
"But where can I find a place of my liking?"
"I don't know that. You can replant her wherever you want, but she must be cared for and looked after because she must live so that you will have the power you need. If she dies, it means that she does not want you and you must not disturb her further. It means you won't have power over her. Therefore, you must care for her, and look after her so that she will grow. You must not pamper her, though."
"Why not?"
"Because if it is not her will to grow, it is of no use to entice her. But, on the other hand, you must prove that you care. Keep the worms away and give her water when you visit her. This must be done regularly until she seeds. After the first seeds bud out, we will be sure that she wants you."
"But, don Juan, it is not possible for me to look after the root the way you wish."
"If you want her power, you must do it! There is no other way!"
"Can you take care of her for me when I am not here, don Juan?"
"No! Not I! I can't do that! Each one must nourish his own shoot. I had my own. Now you must have yours. And not until she has seeded, as I told you, can you consider yourself ready for learning."
"Where do you think I should replant her?"
"That is for you alone to decide! And nobody must know the place, not even I! That is the way the replanting must be done. Nobody, but nobody, can know where your plant is. If a stranger follows you, or sees you, take the shoot and run away to another place. He could cause you unimaginable harm through manipulating the shoot. He could cripple or kill you. That's why not even I must know where your plant is."
He handed me the little jar with the shoot.
"Take it now."
I took it. Then he almost dragged me to my car.
"Now you must leave. Go and pick the spot where you will replant the shoot. Dig a deep hole, in soft dirt, next to a watery place. Remember, she must be near water in order to grow. Dig the hole with your hands only, even if they bleed. Place the shoot in the centre of the hole and make a mound [pilon] around it. Then soak it with water. When the water sinks, fill the hole with soft dirt.
"Next, pick a spot two paces away from the shoot, in that direction [pointing to the southeast]. Dig another deep hole there, also with your hands, and dump into it what is in the pot. Then smash the pot and bury it deep in another place, far from the spot where your shoot is.
"When you have buried the pot go back to your shoot and water it once more. Then take out your image, hold it between the fingers where the flesh wound is, and, standing on the spot where you have buried the glue, touch the shoot lightly with the sharp needle. Circle the shoot four times, stopping each time in the same spot to touch it."
"Do I have to follow a specific direction when I go around the root?"
"Any direction will do. But you must always remember in what direction you buried the glue, and what direction you took when you circled the shoot. Touch the shoot lightly with the point every time except the last, when you must thrust it deep. But do it carefully. Kneel for a more steady hand because you must not break the point inside the shoot. If you break it, you are finished. The root will be of no use to you."
"Do I have to say any words while I go around the shoot?"
"No, I will do that for you."
As soon as I got to his house this morning, don Juan told me he was going to show me how to prepare the smoke mixture. We walked to the hills and went quite a way into one of the canyons. He stopped next to a tall, slender bush whose colour contrasted markedly with that of the surrounding vegetation. The chaparral around the bush was yellowish, but the bush was bright green.
"From this little tree you must take the leaves and the flowers," he said. "The right time to pick them is All Souls' Day [el dia de las animus]."
He took out his knife and chopped off the end of a thin branch. He chose another similar branch and also chopped off its tip. He repeated this operation until he had a handful of branch tips. Then he sat down on the ground.
"Look here," he said. "I have cut all the branches above the fork made by two or more leaves and the stem. Do you see? They are all the same. I have used only the tip of each branch, where the leaves are fresh and tender. Now we must look for a shaded place."
We walked until he seemed to have found what he was looking for. He took a long string from his pocket and tied it to the trunk and the lower branches of two bushes, making a kind of clothesline on which he hung the branch tips upside down. He arranged them along the string in a neat fashion. They were hooked by the fork between the leaves and the stem, and resembled a long row of green horsemen.
"One must see that the leaves dry in the shade," he said. "The place must be secluded and difficult to get to. That way the leaves are protected. They must be left to dry in a place where it would be almost impossible to find them. After they have dried, they must be put in a bundle and sealed."
He picked up the leaves from the string and threw them into the nearby shrubs. Apparently he had intended only to show me the procedure.
We continued walking and he picked three different flowers, saying they were part of the ingredients and were supposed to be gathered at the same time, but the flowers had to be put in separate clay pots and dried in darkness. A lid had to be placed on each pot so the flowers would turn mouldy inside the container. He said the function of the leaves and the flowers was to sweeten the smoke mixture.
We came out of the canyon and walked towards the riverbed. After a long detour we returned to his house. Late in the evening we sat in his own room, a thing he rarely allowed me to do, and he told me about the final ingredient of the mixture, the mushrooms.
"The real secret of the mixture lies in the mushrooms," he said. "They are the most difficult ingredient to collect. The trip to the place where they grow is long and dangerous, and to select the right variety is even more perilous.
"There are other kinds of mushrooms growing alongside which are of no use. They would spoil the good ones if they were dried together. It takes time to know the mushrooms well in order not to make a mistake. Serious harm will result from using the wrong kind- harm to the man and to the pipe. I know of men who have dropped dead from using the foul smoke.
"As soon as the mushrooms are picked, they are put inside a gourd; so there is no way to recheck them. You see, they have to be torn to shreds in order to make them go through the narrow neck of the gourd."
"How long do you keep the mushrooms inside the gourd?"
"For a year. All the other ingredients are also sealed for a year. Then equal parts of them are measured and ground separately into a very fine powder. The little mushrooms don't have to be ground because they become a very fine dust by themselves. All one needs to do is to mash the chunks.
"Four parts of mushrooms are added to one part of all the other ingredients together. Then they are all mixed and put into a bag like mine." He pointed to the little sack hanging under his shirt.
"Then all the ingredients are gathered again, and after they have been put to dry you are ready to smoke the mixture you have just prepared. In your own case, you will smoke next year. And the year after that, the mixture will be all yours because you will have gathered it by yourself.
"The first time you smoke I will light the pipe for you. You will smoke all the mixture in the bowl and wait. The smoke will come. You will feel it. It will set you free to see anything you want to see. Properly speaking, it is a matchless ally.
"But whoever seeks it must have an intent and a will beyond reproach. He needs them because he has to intend and will his return, or the smoke will not let him come back. Second, he must intend and will to remember whatever the smoke allowed him to see, otherwise it will be nothing more than a piece of fog in his mind."
In our conversations, don Juan consistently used or referred to the phrase 'man of knowledge', but never explained what he meant by it. I asked him about it.
"A man of knowledge is one who has followed truthfully the hardships of learning," he said. "A man who has, without rushing or without faltering, gone as far as he can in unravelling the secrets of power and knowledge."
"Can anyone be a man of knowledge?"
"No, not anyone."
"Then what must a man do to become a man of knowledge?"
"He must challenge and defeat his four natural enemies."
"Will he be a man of knowledge after defeating these four enemies?"
"Yes. A man can call himself a man of knowledge only if he is capable of defeating all four of them."
"Then, can anybody who defeats these enemies be a man of knowledge?"
"Anybody who defeats them becomes a man of knowledge"
"But are there any special requirements a man must fulfill before fighting with these enemies?"
"No. Anyone can try to become a man of knowledge. Very few men actually succeed, but that is only natural. The enemies a man encounters on the path of learning to become a man of knowledge are truly formidable. Most men succumb [* succumb- (1.) consent reluctantly: (2.) be fatally overwhelmed] to them."
"What kind of enemies are they, don Juan?"
He refused to talk about the enemies. He said it would be a long time before the subject would make any sense to me. I tried to keep the topic alive and asked him if he thought I could become a man of knowledge. He said no man could possibly tell that for sure, but I insisted on knowing if there were any clues he could use to determine whether or not I had a chance of becoming a man of knowledge. He said it would depend on my battle against the four enemies- whether I could defeat them, or would be defeated by them- but it was impossible to foretell the outcome of that fight.
I asked him if he could use witchcraft or divination to see the outcome of the battle. He flatly stated that the result of the struggle could not be foreseen by any means, because becoming a man of knowledge was a temporary thing. When I asked him to explain this point, he replied.
"To be a man of knowledge has no permanence. One is never a man of knowledge, not really. Rather, one becomes a man of knowledge for a very brief instant after defeating the four natural enemies."
"You must tell me, don Juan, what kind of enemies they are."
He did not answer. I insisted again, but he dropped the subject and started to talk about something else.
As I was getting ready to leave, I decided to ask him once more about the enemies of a man of knowledge. I argued that I could not return for some time, and it would be a good idea to write down what he had to say, and then think about it while I was away.
He hesitated for a while, but then began to talk.
"When a man starts to learn, he is never clear about his objectives. His purpose is faulty. His intent is vague. He hopes for rewards that will never materialize, for he knows nothing of the hardships of learning.
"He slowly begins to learn- bit by bit at first, then in big chunks. And his thoughts soon clash. What he learns is never what he pictured, or imagined, and so he begins to be afraid. Learning is never what one expects. Every step of learning is a new task, and the fear the man is experiencing begins to mount mercilessly, unyieldingly. His purpose becomes a battlefield.
"And thus he has tumbled upon the first of his natural enemies: Fear! A terrible enemy- treacherous, and difficult to overcome. It remains concealed at every turn of the way, prowling, waiting. And if the man, terrified in its presence, runs away, his enemy will have put an end to his quest."
"What will happen to the man if he runs away in fear?"
"Nothing happens to him except that he will never learn. He will never become a man of knowledge. He will perhaps be a bully or a harmless, scared man. At any rate, he will be a defeated man. His first enemy will have put an end to his cravings."
"And what can he do to overcome fear?"
"The answer is very simple. He must not run away. He must defy his fear, and in spite of it, he must take the next step in learning, and the next, and the next. He must be fully afraid, and yet he must not stop. That is the rule! And a moment will come when his first enemy retreats. The man begins to feel sure of himself. His intent becomes stronger. Learning is no longer a terrifying task.
"When this joyful moment comes, the man can say without hesitation that he has defeated his first natural enemy."
"Does it happen at once, don Juan, or little by little?"
"It happens little by little, and yet the fear is vanquished suddenly and fast."
"But won't the man be afraid again if something new happens to him?"
"No. Once a man has vanquished fear, he is free from it for the rest of his life because, instead of fear, he has acquired clarity- a clarity of mind which erases fear. By then a man knows his desires. He knows how to satisfy those desires. He can anticipate the new steps of learning, and a sharp clarity surrounds everything. The man feels that nothing is concealed.
"And thus he has encountered his second enemy: Clarity! That clarity of mind which is so hard to obtain, dispels fear but also blinds.
"It forces the man never to doubt himself. It gives him the assurance he can do anything he pleases, for he sees clearly into everything; and he is courageous because he is clear; and he stops at nothing because he is clear.
"But all that is a mistake. It is like something incomplete. If the man yields to this make-believe power, he has succumbed to his second enemy and will fumble with learning. He will rush when he should be patient, or he will be patient when he should rush; and he will fumble with learning until he winds up incapable of learning anything more."
"What becomes of a man who is defeated in that way, don Juan? Does he die as a result?"
"No, he doesn't die. His second enemy has just stopped him cold from trying to become a man of knowledge. Instead, the man may turn into a buoyant warrior, or a clown. Yet the clarity for which he has paid so dearly will never change to darkness and fear again. He will be clear as long as he lives, but he will no longer learn, or yearn for anything."
"But what does he have to do to avoid being defeated?"
"He must do what he did with fear. He must defy his clarity and use it only to see, and wait patiently and measure carefully before taking new steps. He must think, above all, that his clarity is almost a mistake; and a moment will come when he will understand that his clarity was only a point before his eyes.
"And thus he will have overcome his second enemy, and will arrive at a position where nothing can harm him any more. This will not be a mistake. It will not be only a point before his eyes. It will be true power.
"He will know at this point that the power he has been pursuing for so long is finally his. He can do with it whatever he pleases. His ally is at his command. His wish is the rule. He sees all that is around him. But he has also come across his third enemy: Power!
"Power is the strongest of all enemies. And naturally, the easiest thing to do is to give in. After all, the man is truly invincible. He commands: He begins by taking calculated risks, and ends in making rules because he is a master.
"A man at this stage hardly notices his third enemy closing in on him; and suddenly, without knowing, he will certainly have lost the battle. His enemy will have turned him into a cruel, capricious man."
"Will he lose his power?"
"No, he will never lose his clarity or his power."
"What then will distinguish him from a man of knowledge?"
"A man who is defeated by power dies without really knowing how to handle it. Power is only a burden upon his fate. Such a man has no command over himself, and cannot tell when or how to use his power."
"Is the defeat by any of these enemies a final defeat?"
"Of course it is final. Once one of these enemies overpowers a man there is nothing he can do."
"Is it possible, for instance, that the man who is defeated by power may see his error and mend his ways?"
"No. Once a man gives in he is through."
"But what if he is temporarily blinded by power, and then refuses it?"
"That means his battle is still on. That means he is still trying to become a man of knowledge. A man is defeated only when he no longer tries, and abandons himself."
"But then, don Juan, it is possible that a man may abandon himself to fear for years, but finally conquer it."
"No, that is not true. If he gives in to fear, he will never conquer it because he will shy away from learning and never try again. But if he tries to learn for years in the midst of his fear, he will eventually conquer it because he will never have really abandoned himself to it."
"How can he defeat his third enemy, don Juan?"
"He has to defy it, deliberately. He has to come to realize the power he has seemingly conquered is in reality never his. He must keep himself in line at all times, handling carefully and faithfully all that he has learned. If he can see that clarity and power without his control over himself are worse than mistakes, he will reach a point where everything is held in check. He will know then when and how to use his power; and thus he will have defeated his third enemy.
"The man will be, by then, at the end of his journey of learning, and almost without warning he will come upon the last of his enemies: Old age! This enemy is the cruellest of all; the one he won't be able to defeat completely, but only fight away.
"This is the time when a man has no more fears, no more impatient clarity of mind- a time when all his power is in check, but also the time when he has an unyielding desire to rest. If he gives in totally to his desire to lie down and forget; if he soothes himself in tiredness, he will have lost his last round and his enemy will cut him down into a feeble old creature. His desire to retreat will overrule all his clarity, his power, and his knowledge.
"But if the man sloughs off his tiredness, and lives his fate through, he can then be called a man of knowledge; if only for the brief moment when he succeeds in fighting off his last, invincible enemy. That moment of clarity, power, and knowledge is enough."