Being in Dreaming: Chapter 09.

Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner.

Chapter 09.

Shivering with cold, I wrapped the blanket tightly around me and sat up.

I was in a strange bed in a strange room furnished only with the bed and a night table. However, everything around me exuded familiarity; although I could not decide why it was all so well known to me.

Perhaps I am still asleep, I thought. How do I know this is not a dream?

I sank back into my pillows. I lay there with my arms behind my head, and let the bizarre events I had witnessed and lived, half dreams and half memories, run through my mind.

It had all begun, of course, the year before when I drove with Delia Flores to the healer's house.

Delia had claimed that the picnic I had with everyone had been a dream. I had laughed at her, and discarded her statements as preposterous.

She had been right though. I knew now that the picnic had been a dream.

Not my dream, but a dream dreamt by others, and to which I had been invited. I was a participating guest.

My mistake all along had been to try to doggedly deny it; to discard it as a fake without knowing what I meant by fake.

All I succeeded in doing was to block that event from my mind so completely that I was never aware of it.

What I needed to do was to accept that we have a track for dreams; a groove where only dreams run.

Had I set up myself to remember the dream I had had in Sonora as nothing else but a dream, I would have succeeded in retaining the wonder of what had occurred while the dream was being dreamt.

The more I speculated about it, and about all the things that were happening to me now, the greater my discomfort.

But what surprised me the most was that I was not really scared of all these people who, although supportive, were a scary bunch by any count.

And it suddenly dawned on me that the reason why I was not scared was that I knew them very well. The proof to me was that they themselves had voiced the strange yet comforting feeling I had had- that I was coming home.

I discarded all these thoughts as soon as I had formulated them, and honestly wondered whether perhaps I was mentally unbalanced, and they had found a way to focus on it and thus enhance it.

In a serious, systematic fashion I reviewed the history of my family in an effort to recall everything I might have heard about mental illness.

There was a story of a maternal great-uncle who, Bible in hand, would preach at street corners. Then both my great-grandfather and my grandfather, at the onset of the First and the Second World Wars, respectively, committed suicide upon realizing that everything was lost to them. One of my grandmothers blew her brains out when she realized that she had lost her beauty and sex appeal.

I liked to believe that I had inherited my feeling of detachment from being the true granddaughter of all those nuts. I had always believed that this feeling of detachment gave me my daring.

Those morbid thoughts caused me such anxiety that I jumped out of bed.

With nervous, jerky movements I pulled my body out of the blanket.

To my utter bafflement I found myself bundled in a heavy flannel nightshirt. I had on thick, knee-length wool socks, mittens, and a cardigan sweater.

I mumbled to myself in dismay,"I must be ill. Why else would I be cold with all these clothes on?" Normally I slept in the nude regardless of the climate.

Only then did I notice the sunlight in the room. It came through the thick, semi-opaque window.

I was certain that the light shining in my eyes had awakened me.

And I really needed to find the bathroom.

Worried that the house did not have inside plumbing, I stepped toward the sliding door at the other end of the room, which was open, and sure enough, it was a water closet with a lidded chamber pot in it.

I yelled, "Damn it! I can not go to the bathroom in a water closet!"

The door opened, and Florinda walked in. Embracing me, she said, "It is all right. There is an outhouse. The water closet is a relic from the past."

I laughed, and said, "How fortunate it is already morning. No one will ever know that I am too fainthearted to go to the outhouse in the dark."

Florinda gave me a strange look, then turned her gaze away, and at last she said in a whisper, "What makes you think it is morning?"

I moved toward the window, and said, "The sun woke me up a little while ago."

Then, uncomprehendingly, I stared at the darkness outside.

Florinda's face brightened. She seemed to control herself, but then her shoulders shook with laughter as she pointed to the light bulb in the lamp standing behind the bed. I had mistaken the bright bulb for the sunlight.

Florinda asked, "What makes you so sure you are awake?"

I turned to look at her and said, "My unbearable urge to go to the bathroom."

She took me by the arm and said, "Let me take you to the outhouse before you disgrace yourself."

I yelled, "I am not going anywhere until you tell me whether I am awake or dreaming."

Florinda lowered her head until her forehead touched mine, and exclaimed, "What a temper!"

Her eyes were wide, and she enunciated each word very carefully as as she added, "You are dreaming-awake."

In spite of my growing apprehension, I began to laugh. The sound of my laughter, which reverberated around the room like a distant echo, dispelled my anxiety.

At that moment I was no longer concerned about whether I was awake or dreaming. All my attention was focused on reaching the toilet.

I growled, "Where is the outhouse?"

Florinda folded her arms over her chest, and said, "You know where it is. And you will never reach it in time unless you will yourself to be there.

"But do not bring the outhouse to your bed. That is called lazy dreaming; and is the surest way to soil your bed. Go to the outhouse yourself in a flick of an eyelid."

To my utter horror, I could not reach the door when I tried to. My feet lacked the confidence to walk. Slowly and uncertainly, as if they were unable to decide which way to go, they moved, one foot ahead of the other.

Resisting to accept that my feet were no longer under my command, I tried to speed up my movements by lifting, with my hands, one foot after the other.

Florinda did not seem to care what was happening to me.

My eyes teared up with frustration and self-pity as I stood rooted to the spot. My lips shaped the word help, but no sound came out of my mouth.

What is the matter?" she asked as she took hold of one of my arms and gently pulled me down to the floor.

Florinda removed my heavy woolen socks and examined my feet. She now seemed genuinely concerned.

I wanted to explain that my inability to move was due to my being emotionally exhausted. But hard as I tried, I could not formulate my thoughts into words.

As I struggled to utter a sound, I noticed that something was wrong with my vision. My eyes were no longer able to focus.

Florinda's face remained blurry and fuzzy no matter how hard I squeezed my eyes, and regardless of how close I moved my face to hers.

Florinda whispered in my ear, "I know what is the matter with you. You have to go to the outhouse.

"Will yourself there! Do it!"

I nodded emphatically. I knew that I was indeed dreaming-awake, or rather, that I was living in another reality that did not yet fully belong to me, but to which I had access through these people.

Then I felt inexplicably at ease; and suddenly I was in the outhouse- not in a dreamed outhouse, but in a real one.

It took me a long time to test my surroundings and to make sure this was the real thing. It was.

Then I was back in the room, but I did not know how.

Florinda said something flattering about my dreaming capacity.

I paid little attention to her remarks because I was distracted by the pile of blankets against the wall. I had not noticed them upon awakening, yet I was certain I had seen them before.

My feeling of ease vanished quickly as I tried to recall where I had seen those blankets.

My anguish grew. I did not know any longer whether I was still in the same house I had arrived at earlier in the evening with Isidore Baltazar, or whether I was someplace else.

I asked, "Whose room is this? And who bundled me up with all these clothes?"

It terrified me to hear my own voice.

Florinda stroked my hair, and in a kind, soft voice said that for the time being this was my room; and that she had bundled me up so I would not get cold.

She explained that the desert is deceiving; especially at night.

She regarded me with an enigmatic expression as though she were hinting at something else.

It disturbed me because her words gave me no clues as to what she might be referring.

My thoughts reeled aimlessly. The key word, I decided, was desert.

I had not known the witches' place was in the desert. We had arrived at it in such a roundabout way that I had failed to ascertain where exactly the house was located.

I asked, "Whose house is this, Florinda?"

She seemed to be wrestling with some deep problem, and her expression changed from thoughtful to worried several times. Her voice was deep with emotion as she finally said, "You are home."

Before I could remind her that she had not answered my question, she gestured for me to be silent, and pointed a finger at the door.

Something whispered in the darkness outside. It could have been the wind and the leaves, but I knew it was not.

It was a soothing, familiar sound that brought back to me the memory of the picnic. In particular, it brought back Mariano Aureliano's words, "I will blow you, as I blew the others, to the one person who now holds the myth in his hands."

The words rang in my ears. I turned to look, wondering if Mariano Aureliano had perhaps come into the room and was repeating them out loud this very instant.

Florinda nodded. She had read my mind, and her eyes, fixed on mine, were forcing me to acknowledge my understanding of his claim.

At the picnic I had not given much thought to his statement. It had simply been too preposterous.

Now, I was so curious to find out who 'the others' really were that I could not afford to let the topic of the conversation slip by.

I began cautiously, saying, "Isidore Baltazar talked about some people who work with him.

Hesitantly, I continued by saying, "He said that they had been entrusted to him, and that it was his sacred duty to help them. Are they the ones who... blew to him?"

Florinda nodded her head affirmatively, and a faint smile curled her lips as if she found my reluctance to mention the word 'blew' amusing.

She said, "Those are the ones the old nagual blew to the new nagual. They are women, and they are like you."

I asked uncertainly, "Like me?"

I wished I had not been so absorbed with my own puzzling changes of moods and feelings toward Isidore Baltazar during the trip, and that I had paid closer attention to all he had revealed about his world.

I asked Florinda, "In what way are those women like me? Do you know them?"

Noncommittally, she said, "I have seen them."

The mere thought of them was both exciting and alarming to me and I asked with ill-concealed displeasure, "How many women have been blown to Isidore Baltazar?"

Florinda was positively gleeful at my reaction as she explained, "A few. They do not resemble you physically, and yet they are like you.

"What I mean is that they resemble one another the way my fellow sorceresses and I resemble one another.

"Were you not, yourself, surprised at how much alike we looked when you first met us?"

Acknowledging my nod, Florinda went on to say that what made her and her cohorts so alike- in spite of the obvious physical differences- was their unbiased commitment to the sorcerers' world.

She said, "We are drawn together by an affection that is as yet incomprehensible to you."

As cynically as I could, I stated, "I bet it is."

Then my curiosity and excitement about the women who had been blown to Isidore Baltazar got the better of me, and I asked, "When will I meet them?"

Florinda said, "When you find them." Her voice, though low, had an extraordinary force that all but silenced me for a moment.

But then I asked, "How can I find them if I do not know them? It is impossible."

Casually she remarked, "Not for a witch.

"As I already said, you do not resemble them physically, but the glow inside you is as bright as the glow inside them.

"You will recognize them by that glow."

Her eyes were fixed on me intently, as if she could indeed see the glow inside me.

Her face was grave and her voice unusually low as she added, "It is the glow of sorcerers."

I wanted to make some impudent remark, but something in her manner alarmed me. I asked, "Can I see that glow?"

Florinda said, "We need the nagual for that."

Then she pointed to the nagual Mariano Aureliano who was standing in the shadowy corner of the room.

I had not noticed him at all, but I did not find his sudden appearance in any way alarming.

Florinda told him what I wanted.

He motioned me to follow him to the middle of the room, and said, "I will show you that glow." He squatted and, holding up both hands, gestured for me to get on his back.

I asked, "We are going for a piggyback ride?"

I made no effort to conceal my disappointment. "Are you not going to show me the glow of sorcerers?"

Although I clearly remembered his words that true sorcery was not bizarre behavior, rituals, drugs, or incantations, I nevertheless expected a show- some demonstration of his power, such as mixing spells and simples over the fire.

Ignoring my disillusionment, Mariano Aureliano urged me to put my arms around his neck lightly so as not to choke him.

As I did, I cautiously asked him, "Do you not think I am a little too old to be carried around?"

Mariano Aureliano's laughter gurgled up inside him, and exploded with outrageous delight.

In one swift motion he sprang to his feet. He tucked his arms behind my knees, and shifted me into a comfortable position. Then he stepped out into the hall although my head did not hit the door frame.

He walked so fast and effortlessly I had the distinct sensation of floating down the long dark corridor.

Curious, I glanced all around me. However, we moved too fast for me to catch any but brief glimpses of the house.

A soft yet persistent scent permeated everything; a fragrance of orange blossoms and the freshness of cold air.

Outside, the yard was blurred by mist. All I was able to see was a uniform mass of dark silhouettes. Swirls of fog transformed every space; revealing and then blotting out strange shapes of trees and stones.

We were not at the witches' house. I was sure of that.

I heard nothing except a rhythmical breathing, but I could not tell if it was the nagual Mariano Aureliano's breathing or my own.

The sound spread all over the yard. It made the leaves tremble, as if a wind were rustling through the branches. The trembling seeped into my body with every breath I took.

I became so dizzy that I wrapped my arms tightly around his shoulders lest I lose consciousness. Before I had a chance to tell him what I was experiencing, the fog closed in around me, and I felt myself dissolve into nothingness.

The nagual Mariano Aureliano's voice came as if from a great distance as he said, "Rest your chin on the top of my head."

The words jolted me, for I had quite forgotten that I was riding on his back.

He pushed me up on his back so that my head was above his, and he added with great urgency, "Whatever you do, do not let go of me."

My voice got terribly screechy as I asked in a tone that betrayed my growing apprehension, "What could possibly happen if I let go? I would just fall onto the ground, would I not?"

Mariano Aureliano laughed softly but did not answer.

Leisurely, he walked up and down the extensive yard with light, soft steps; almost in a kind of dance.

And then, for an instant, I had the distinct impression that we became weightless, and rose in the air.

I felt that we actually traveled through the darkness for a fleeting moment, then I felt the solid ground through Mariano Aureliano's body.

Whether the fog had lifted or whether we were in a different yard, I could not determine; but something had changed.

Perhaps it was only the air. It was heavier and harder to breathe.

There was no moon, and the stars were faint, yet the sky shone as if it were lit from some faraway spot. Slowly, as if someone were outlining them in the air, the contours of trees became clear.

About five feet away, in front of a particularly tall and bushy zapote tree, Mariano Aureliano came to an abrupt halt.

At the foot of that tree stood a group of people; perhaps twelve or fourteen.

The long leaves, weighed down by the mist, shadowed their faces.

A strange green light emanating from the tree made each person unnaturally vivid. Their eyes, their noses, their lips, and all of their features gleamed in that green light. Yet, I could make out nothing of their faces.

I did not recognize any of them. I could not even determine whether they were males or females. They were simply people.

I whispered into Mariano Aureliano's ear, "What are they doing? Who are they?"

He hissed, "Keep your chin on the top of my head."

I pressed my chin firmly against his head, but I feared that if I pushed too hard my whole face would sink into his skull.

Hoping to recognize someone by his or her voice, I said good evening to them.

Fleeting smiles parted their lips. But instead of returning my greeting, they averted their faces.

An odd sound came from amidst them; a sound that energized them, for they, too, like the tree, began to glow. Not a green light, but a golden brilliance that coalesced and shimmered until they all fused into one big amber, golden ball that just hovered there under the tree.

Then the golden ball dissolved into patches of luminosity. Like giant glowworms, they appeared and disappeared among the trees; sowing light and shadow in their passing.

Mariano Aureliano murmured, "Remember that glow. It is the glow... of the surem."

Those words echoed in my head.

But then a sudden gust of wind scattered his words.

The wind was alive. It glowed against the darkness of the sky. It blew with great violence, and with a strange ripping sound.

Then the wind seemed to turn against me. I was certain it meant to annihilate me.

I cried out in pain as a particularly icy gust seared my lungs. A coldness spread through my body until I felt myself grow stiff.

Then, whether it was Mariano Aureliano who spoke, or was the sound of the wind, I could not tell.

But the sound roared in my ears, and blotted out everything around me. Then it was inside my lungs. It wriggled like a living thing eager to devour every cell in my body.

I could feel myself collapse, and I knew I was going to die. But the roaring stopped. The silence was so sudden I heard it. I laughed out loud, thankful that I was still alive.