The last event I recorded in my field notes took place in September 1965. It was the last of don Juan's teachings. I called it 'a special state of non-ordinary reality' because it was not the product of any of the plants I had used before.
It seemed that don Juan elicited it by means of a careful manipulation of cues about himself. That is to say, he behaved in front of me in so skilful a manner that he created the clear and sustained impression that he was not really himself, but rather someone impersonating him.
As a result I experienced a profound sense of conflict. I wanted to believe it was don Juan, and yet I could not be sure of it. The concomitant [* concomitant- an event or situation that happens at the same time as another] of the conflict was a conscious terror so acute that it impaired my health for several weeks.
Afterwards I thought it would be wise to end my apprenticeship then. I have never been a participant since that time, yet don Juan has not ceased to consider me an apprentice.
He has regarded my withdrawal only as a necessary period of recapitulation, another step of learning, which may last indefinitely. Since that time, however, he has never expounded on his knowledge.
I wrote the detailed account of my last experience almost a month after it happened, although I had already written copious notes on its salient points on the following day during the hours of great emotional agitation which preceded the highest point of my terror.
On Thursday September 30, 1965, I went to see don Juan. The brief, shallow states of non-ordinary reality had been persisting in spite of my deliberate attempts to end them, or slough them off as don Juan had suggested. I felt that my condition was getting worse because the duration of such states was increasing.
I became sharply aware of the noise of airplanes. The sound of their motors going overhead would unavoidably catch my attention, and fix it to the point where I felt I was following the plane as if I were inside it, or flying with it. This sensation was very annoying. My inability to shake it off produced a deep anxiety in me.
Don Juan, after listening attentively to all the details, concluded that I was suffering from a loss of soul. I told him I had been having these hallucinations ever since the time I had smoked the mushrooms, but he insisted that they were a new development.
He said that earlier I had been afraid, and had just dreamed nonsensical things, but that now I was truly bewitched. The proof was that the noise of the flying airplanes could carry me away. Ordinarily, he said, the noise of a brook or a river can trap a bewitched man who has lost his soul and carry him away to his death.
He then asked me to describe all my activities during the time prior to experiencing the hallucinations. I listed all the activities I could remember, and from my account he deduced the place where I had lost my soul.
Don Juan seemed to be overly preoccupied, a state that was quite unusual for him. This naturally increased my apprehension. He said he had no definite idea as to who had trapped my soul, but whoever it was intended without doubt to kill me or make me very ill.
Then he gave me precise instructions about a 'fighting form'; a specific bodily position to be maintained while I remained on my beneficial spot. I had to maintain this posture he called a form [una forma para pelear].
I asked him what all that was for, and whom I was going to fight. He replied that he was going away to see who had taken my soul, and to find out if it was possible to get it back. In the meantime, I was supposed to stay on my spot until his return.
The fighting form was actually a precaution, he said, in case something happened during his absence, and it had to be used if I was attacked. It consisted of clapping the calf and thigh of my right leg and stomping my left foot in a kind of dance I had to do while facing the attacker.
He warned me that the form had to be adopted only in moments of extreme crisis, but so long as there was no danger in sight I should simply sit cross-legged on my spot. Under circumstances of extreme danger, however, he said I could resort to one last means of defence- hurling an object at the enemy. He told me that ordinarily one hurls a power object, but since I did not possess any I was forced to use any small rock that would fit into the palm of my right hand; a rock I could hold by pressing it against my palm with my thumb.
He said that such a technique should be used only if one was indisputably in danger of losing one's life. The hurling of the object had to be accompanied by a war cry, a yell that had the property of directing the object to its mark. He emphatically recommended that I be careful and deliberate about the outcry and not use it at random, but only under 'severe conditions of seriousness'.
I asked what he meant by severe conditions of seriousness. He said that the outcry or war cry was something that remained with a man for the duration of his life; thus it had to be good from the very beginning. And the only way to start it correctly was by holding back one's natural fear and haste until one was absolutely filled with power, and then the yell would burst out with direction and power. He said these were the conditions of seriousness needed to launch the yell.
I asked him to explain about the power that was supposed to fill one before the outcry. He said that it was something that ran through the body coming from the ground where one stood. It was a kind of power that emanated from the beneficial spot, to be exact. It was a force that pushed the yell out. If such a force was properly managed, the battle cry would be perfect.
I asked him again if he thought something was going to happen to me. He said he knew nothing about it and admonished me dramatically to stay glued to my spot for as long as it was necessary, because that was the only protection I had against anything that might happen.
I began to feel frightened. I begged him to be more specific.
He said all he knew was that I should not move under any circumstances. I was not to go into the house or into the bush. Above all, he said, I should not utter a single word; not even to him. He said I could sing my Mescalito songs if I became too frightened, and then he added that I knew already too much about these matters to have to be warned like a child about the importance of doing everything correctly.
His admonitions produced a state of profound anguish in me. I was sure he was expecting something to happen. I asked him why he recommended that I sing the Mescalito songs, and what he believed was going to frighten me. He laughed and said I might become afraid of being alone.
He walked into the house and closed the door behind him. I looked at my watch. It was 7:00 p.m. I sat quietly for a long time. There were no sounds corning from don Juan's room. Everything was quiet. It was windy. I thought of making a dash for my car to get my windbreaker, but I did not dare to go against don Juan's advice. I was not sleepy, but tired. The cold wind made it impossible for me to rest.
Four hours later I heard don Juan walking around the house. I thought he might have left through the back to urinate in the bushes. Then he called me loudly.
"Hey boy! Hey boy! I need you here," he said.
I nearly got up to go to him. It was his voice, but not his tone, or his usual words. Don Juan had never called me "Hey boy!" So I stayed where I was. A chill went up my back. He began to yell again using the same, or a similar, phrase.
I heard him walking around the back of his house. He stumbled on a woodpile as if he did not know it was there. Then he came to the porch and sat next to the door with his back against the wall. He seemed heavier than usual. His movements were not slow or clumsy, just heavier. He plunked down on the floor, instead of sliding nimbly as he usually did. Besides, that was not his spot and don Juan would never under any circumstances sit anywhere else.
Then he talked to me again. He asked me why I refused to come when he needed me. He talked loudly. I did not want to look at him, and yet I had a compulsive urge to watch him. He began to swing slightly from side to side.
I changed my position, adopted the fighting form he had taught me, and turned to face him. My muscles were stiff and strangely tense. I do not know what prompted me to adopt the fighting form, but perhaps it was because I believed don Juan was deliberately trying to scare me by creating the impression that the person I saw was not really himself.
I felt he was very careful about doing the unaccustomed in order to establish doubt in my mind. I was afraid, but still I felt I was above it all, because I was actually taking stock of and analysing the entire sequence.
At that point don Juan got up. His motions were utterly unfamiliar. He brought his arms in front of his body, and pushed himself up, lifting his backside first. Then he grabbed the door and straightened out the top part of his body. I was amazed about how deeply familiar I was with his movements, and what an awesome feeling he had created by letting me see a don Juan who did not move like don Juan.
He took a couple of steps towards me. He held the lower part of his back with both hands as if he were trying to straighten up, or as if he were in pain. He whined and puffed. His nose seemed to be stuffed up. He said he was going to take me with him, and ordered me to get up and follow him. He walked towards the west side of the house. I shifted my position to face him. He turned to me. I did not move from my spot. I was glued to it.
He bellowed, "Hey boy! I told you to come with me. If you don't come I'll drag you!"
He walked towards me. I began beating my calf and thigh, and dancing fast. He got to the edge of the porch in front of me and nearly touched me. Frantically I prepared my body to adopt the hurling position, but he changed directions and moved away from me, towards the bushes to my left. At one moment, as he was walking away, he turned suddenly, but I was facing him.
He went out of sight. I retained the fighting posture for a while longer, but as I did not see him any more I sat cross-legged again with my back to the rock.
By then I was really frightened. I wanted to run away, yet that thought terrified me even more. I felt I would have been completely at his mercy if he had caught me on the way to my car. I began to sing the peyote songs I knew. But somehow I felt they were impotent there. They served only as a pacifier, yet they soothed me. I sang them over and over.
About 2:45 a.m. I heard a noise inside the house. I immediately changed my position. The door was flung open and don Juan stumbled out. He was gasping and holding his throat. He knelt in front of me and moaned. He asked me in a high, whining voice to come and help him. Then he bellowed again and ordered me to come. He made gargling sounds. He pleaded with me to come and help him because something was choking him. He crawled on his hands and knees until he was perhaps four feet away. He extended his hands to me. He said, "Come here!"
Then he got up. His arms were extended towards me. He seemed ready to grab me. I stomped my foot on the ground and clapped my calf and thigh. I was beside myself with fear.
He stopped and walked to the side of the house and into the bushes. I shifted my position to face him. Then I sat down again. I did not want to sing any more. My energy seemed to be waning. My entire body ached. All my muscles were stiff and painfully contracted.
I did not know what to think. I could not make up my mind whether to be angry at don Juan or not. I thought of jumping him, but somehow I knew he would have cut me down, like a bug. I really wanted to cry. I experienced a profound despair. The thought that don Juan was going all the way out to frighten me made me feel like weeping. I was incapable of finding a reason for his tremendous display of histrionics. His movements were so artful that I became confused.
It was not as if he was trying to move like a woman: It was as if a woman was trying to move like don Juan. I had the impression that she was really trying to walk and move with don Juan's deliberation, but was too heavy and did not have the nimbleness of don Juan. Whoever it was in front of me created the impression of being a younger, heavy woman trying to imitate the slow movements of an agile old man.
These thoughts threw me into a state of panic. A cricket began to call loudly, very close to me. I noticed the richness of its tone. I fancied it to have a baritone voice. The call started to fade away. Suddenly my whole body jerked. I assumed the fighting position again and faced the direction from which the cricket's call had come.
The sound was taking me away. It had begun to trap me before I realized it was only cricket-like. The sound got closer again. It became terribly loud. I started to sing my peyote songs louder and louder. Suddenly the cricket stopped. I immediately sat down, but kept on singing.
A moment later I saw the shape of a man running towards me from the direction opposite to that of the cricket's call. I clapped my hands on my thigh and calf and stomped vigorously, frantically. The shape went by very fast, almost touching me. It looked like a dog. I experienced so dreadful a fear that I was numb. I cannot recollect anything else I felt or thought.
The morning dew was refreshing. I felt better. Whatever the phenomenon was, it seemed to have withdrawn. It was 5:48 a.m. when don Juan opened the door quietly and came out. He stretched his arms, yawning, and glanced at me. He took two steps towards me, prolonging his yawning. I saw his eyes looking through half-closed eyelids. I jumped up. I knew then that whoever, or whatever, was in front of me was not don Juan.
I took a small, sharp-edged rock from the ground. It was next to my right hand. I did not look at it. I just held it by pressing it with my thumb against my extended fingers. I adopted the form don Juan had taught me. I felt a strange vigour filling me, in a matter of seconds.
Then I yelled and hurled the rock at him. I thought it was a magnificent outcry. At that moment I did not care whether I lived or died. I felt the cry was awesome in its potency. It was piercing and prolonged, and it actually directed my aim. The figure in front wobbled and shrieked and staggered to the side of the house and into the bushes again.
It took me hours to calm down. I could not sit any more. I kept on trotting on the same place. I had to breathe through my mouth to take in enough air.
At 11:00 a.m. don Juan came out again. I was going to jump up, but the movements were his. He went directly to his spot and sat down in his usual familiar way. He looked at me and smiled. He was don Juan! I went to him, and instead of being angry, I kissed his hand. I really believed then that he had not acted to create a dramatic effect, but that someone had impersonated him to cause me harm or to kill me.
The conversation began with speculations about the identity of a female person who had allegedly taken my soul. Then don Juan asked me to tell him about every detail of my experience.
I narrated the whole sequence of events in a very deliberate manner. He laughed all the way, as if it were a joke.
When I had finished he said, "You did fine. You won the battle for your soul. But this matter is more serious than I thought. Your life wasn't worth two hoots last night. It is fortunate you learned something in the past. Had you not had a little training you would be dead by now, because whoever you saw last night meant to finish you off."
"How is it possible, don Juan, that she could take your form?"
"Very simple. She is a diablera and has a good helper on the other side. But she was not too good in assuming my likeness, and you caught on to her trick."
"Is a helper on the other side the same as an ally?"
"No, a helper is the aid of a diablero. A helper is a spirit that lives on the other side of the world and helps a diablero to cause sickness and pain. It helps him to kill."
"Can a diablero also have an ally, don Juan?"
"It is the diableros who have the allies, but before a diablero can tame an ally, he usually has a helper to aid him in his tasks."
"How about the woman who took your form, don Juan? Does she have only a helper and not an ally?"
"I don't know whether she has an ally or not. Some people do not like the power of an ally and prefer a helper. To tame an ally is hard work. It is easier to get a helper on the other side."
"Do you think I could get a helper?"
"To know that, you have to learn much more. We are again at the beginning, almost as on the first day you came over and asked me to tell you about Mescalito, and I could not because you would not have understood. That other side is the world of diableros. I think it would be best to tell you my own feelings in the same way my benefactor told me his.
"He was a diablero and a warrior. His life was inclined towards the force and the violence of the world. But I am neither of them. That is my nature. You have seen my world from the start. As to showing you the world of my benefactor, I can only put you at the door, and you will have to decide for yourself. You will have to learn about it by your effort alone.
"I must admit now that I made a mistake. It is much better, I see now, to start the way I did, myself. Then it is easier to realize how simple and yet how profound the difference is. A diablero is a diablero, and a warrior is a warrior; or a man can be both. There are enough people who are both. But a man who only traverses the paths of life is everything. Today I am neither a warrior nor a diablero.
"For me there is only the travelling on the paths that have a heart; on any path that may have a heart. There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge for me is to traverse its full length. And there I travel- looking, looking, breathlessly."
He paused. His face revealed a peculiar mood. He seemed to be unusually serious. I did not know what to ask or to say.
He proceeded, saying, "The particular thing to learn is how to get to the crack between the worlds and how to enter the other world. There is a crack between the two worlds; the world of the diableros and the world of living men. There is a place where the two worlds overlap. The crack is there. It opens and closes like a door in the wind.
"To get there a man must exercise his will. He must, I should say, develop an indomitable desire for it, a single-minded dedication. But he must do it without the help of any power or any man.
"The man by himself must ponder and wish up to a moment in which his body is ready to undergo the journey. That moment is announced by prolonged shaking of the limbs and violent vomiting. The man usually cannot sleep or eat, and wanes away.
"When the convulsions do not stop, the man is ready to go, and the crack between the worlds appears right in front of his eyes; like a monumental door; a crack that goes up and down. When the crack opens the man has to slide through it.
"It is hard to see on the other side of the boundary. It is windy, like a sandstorm. The wind whirls around. The man then must walk in any direction. It will be a short or a long journey, depending on his willpower. A strong-willed man journeys shortly. An undecided, weak man journeys long and precariously.
"After this journey the man arrives at a sort of plateau. It is possible to distinguish some of its features clearly. It is a plane above the ground. It is possible to recognize it by the wind, which there becomes even more violent, whipping, roaring all around. On top of that plateau is the entrance to that other world.
"And there stands a skin that separates the two worlds. Dead men go through it without a noise, but we have to break it with an outcry. The wind gathers strength; the same unruly wind that blows on the plateau. When the wind has gathered enough force, the man has to yell and the wind will push him through.
"Here his will has to be inflexible, too, so that he can fight the wind. All he needs is a gentle shove. He does not need to be blown to the ends of the other world. Once on the other side, the man will have to wander around. His good fortune would be to find a helper nearby- not too far from the entrance. The man has to ask him for help. In his own words he has to ask the helper to teach him and make him a diablero.
"When the helper agrees, he kills the man on the spot, and while he is dead he teaches him. When you make the trip yourself, depending on your luck, you may find a great diablero in the helper who will kill you and teach you.
"Most of the time, though, one encounters lesser brujos who have very little to teach. But neither you nor they have the power to refuse. The best instance is to find a male helper lest one become the prey of a diablera, who will make one suffer in an unbelievable manner. Women are always like that.
"But that depends on luck alone, unless one's benefactor is a great diablero himself, in which event he will have many helpers in the other world, and can direct one to see a particular helper. My benefactor was such a man. He directed me to encounter his spirit helper.
"After your return, you will not be the same man. You are committed to come back to see your helper often; and you are committed to wander farther and farther from the entrance until finally one day you will go too far and will not be able to return.
"Sometimes a diablero may catch a soul and push it through the entrance and leave it in the custody of his helper until he robs the person of all his willpower. In other cases, like yours for instance, the soul belongs to a strong-willed person, and the diablero may keep it inside his pouch, because it is too hard to carry otherwise.
"In such instances, as in yours, a fight may resolve the problem- a fight in which the diablero either wins all, or loses all. This time she lost the combat and had to release your soul. Had she won she would have taken it to her helper, for keeps."
"But how did I win?"
"You did not move from your spot. Had you moved one inch away you would have been demolished. She chose the moment I was away as the best time to strike, and she did it well. She failed because she did not count on your own nature, which is violent, and also because you did not budge from the spot on which you are invincible."
"How would she have killed me if I had moved?"
"She would have hit you like a thunderbolt. But above all she would have kept your soul and you would have wasted away."
"What is going to happen now, don Juan?"
"Nothing. You won your soul back. It was a good battle. You learned many things last night."
Afterwards we began to look for the stone I had hurled. He said if we could find it we could be absolutely sure the affair had ended. We looked for nearly three hours. I had the feeling I would recognize it, but I could not.
That same day in the early evening don Juan took me into the hills around his house. There he gave me long and detailed instructions on specific fighting procedures. At one moment in the course of repeating certain prescribed steps I found myself alone. I had run up a slope and was out of breath. I was perspiring freely, and yet I was cold. I called don Juan several times, but he did not answer, and I began to experience a strange apprehension.
I heard a rustling in the underbrush as if someone was coming towards me. I listened attentively, but the noise stopped. Then it came again, louder and closer. At that moment it occurred to me that the events of the preceding night were going to be repeated.
In a matter of a few seconds my fear grew out of all proportion. The rustle in the underbrush got closer, and my strength waned. I wanted to scream or weep, run away or faint. My knees sagged. I fell to the ground, whining. I could not even close my eyes. After that, I remember only that don Juan made a fire and rubbed the contracted muscles of my arms and legs.
I remained in a state of profound distress for several hours. Afterwards don Juan explained my disproportionate reaction as a common occurrence. I said I could not figure out logically what had caused my panic, and he replied that it was not the fear of dying, but rather the fear of losing my soul; a fear common among men who do not have unbending intent.
That experience was the last of don Juan's teachings. Ever since that time I have refrained from seeking his lessons. And, although don Juan has not changed his benefactor's attitude towards me, I do believe that I have succumbed to the first enemy of a man of knowledge.
HTML EDITOR:
As far as I am concerned, this is the end of this book. It is true that the "Structural Analysis follows, however...
Although I have occasionally glanced at the "Structural Analysis", I have never seriously considered reading it. I suggest you proceed to Castaneda's second book, "A Separate Reality: Further Conversations with don Juan".
Carlos quit his apprenticeship at the end of his first book. Although he took the next three years off, he continues his apprenticeship after that break. His second book, "A Separate Reality" picks up at the point he begins again.
END HTML EDITOR