Being in Dreaming: Chapter 11.

Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner.

Chapter 11.

I turned off the light and lay very still in my hammock, lulled by the noises of the house, strange creaking sounds and the trickling of water from an earthenware filter standing outside my door.

Abruptly, I sat up as the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed along the corridor. I thought, "Who could it be at this hour?"

I tiptoed across the room and pressed my ear against the door.

The footsteps were heavy. My heart beat fast and loud as the steps came closer. They stopped in front of my door.

The knock was urgent, and although I was expecting it, it nonetheless startled me. I jumped back, knocking over a chair.

Florinda stepped into the room and asked, "Did you have a nightmare?" She left the door half open, and the light from the corridor shone inside.

Smiling at me, she said mockingly, "I thought you would be happy to hear the sound of my steps. I did not want to sneak up on you."

She straightened up the chair, and draped a pair of khaki pants and a shirt over its backrest.

Florinda said, "Compliments of the caretaker. He says you can keep them."

I repeated, "Keep them?"

I eyed the garments suspiciously. They looked clean and ironed.

I asked, "What is wrong with my jeans?"

Florinda said, "You will be more comfortable in these pants during the long drive to Los Angeles."

I cried out in alarm, saying, "But I do not want to leave! I am staying here until Isidore Baltazar returns."

Florinda laughed, but then seeing that I was about to weep, she said, "Isidore Baltazar is back, but you are welcome to stay longer if you wish."

I blurted out, "Oh, no. I do not."

The anxiety I had felt for the past two days was all but forgotten. So were all the questions I had wanted to ask Florinda.

All I could think of was that Isidore Baltazar was back. I asked, "Can I see him now?"

Florinda stopped me from leaving the room, and said, "I am afraid you can not."

For a moment her statement did not register. I stared at her uncomprehendingly, and she repeated that it was not possible to see the new nagual tonight.

Bewildered, I asked, "Why not? I am sure he would want to see me."

Florinda readily agreed, saying, "I am sure he would. But he is sound asleep, and you can not wake him up."

It was such a fierce refusal that all I could do was stare at her, speechless.

Florinda looked at the floor for a long time, then gazed up at me.

Her expression was sad. For an instant I believed she would relent and take me to see Isidore Baltazar.

Instead, she repeated with sharp finality, "I am afraid you can not see him tonight."

Hastily, as if she were afraid she might still change her mind, she embraced and kissed me, and then left the room.

She switched off the light outside, then turned from the shadows of the corridor to look at me and said, "Go to sleep now."

Tossing and turning, I lay awake for hours.

Close to dawn I finally got up and put on the clothes Florinda had brought me.

They fit me well, except for the pants, which I had to cinch in at the waist with a piece of string since I had no belt with me.

Shoes in hand, I stole down the corridor past the caretaker's room to the back entrance. Mindful of the creaking hinges, I opened the door carefully and only a crack.

It was still dark outside, yet a soft, radiant blue was spreading across the eastern sky.

I ran to the arched doorway built into the wall, and stopped momentarily by the two trees outside it that guarded the path.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of orange blossoms.

Whatever lingering doubts I might have had about crossing the chaparral were dispelled as I dicovered that fresh ashes had been strewn on the ground.

Without another thought I dashed to the other house.

The door was ajar, but I did not go in right away.

I crouched beneath the window and waited for some kind of a sound.

I did not have to wait long before I heard a loud snoring.

I listened for a while and went inside. Guided by that distinct snoring sound, I went directly to the room at the back of the house.

In the darkness I could hardly make out the sleeping form on the straw mat, yet I had no doubt that it was Isidore Baltazar.

Fearing that he might be startled if I were to wake him too suddenly, I returned to the front room and sat on the couch.

I was so excited I could not sit still. I was beside myself with joy thinking that any moment now he would wake up.

Twice I tiptoed back into the room and looked at him. He had turned in his sleep and was no longer snoring.

I must have dozed off on the couch. I sensed through my fitful sleep that someone stood in the room.

I half roused and intended to murmur, "I am waiting for Isidore Baltazar to wake up," but I actually made no sound.

I made a conscious effort to sit up.

I swayed dizzily before I could focus my eyes on the man standing beside me. It was Mariano Aureliano.

I asked him, "Is Isidore Baltazar still asleep?"

The old nagual gazed at me for a long time.

Wondering whether I was dreaming, I boldly reached for his hand. It burnt as if it were on fire, and I dropped it abruptly.

He raised his brows, seemingly surprised by my actions.

As if it cost him a great effort to enunciate his words, he spoke slowly, saying, "You will not be able to see Isidore Baltazar until the morning."

Before I had a chance to say that it was almost morning and that I would wait for Isidore Baltazar on the couch, I felt Mariano Aureliano's burning hand on my back pushing me across the threshold.

He said, "Go back to your hammock."

There was a sudden rush of wind.

I turned around to protest, but Mariano Aureliano was no longer there.

The wind reverberated in my head like a deep gong. The sound grew softer and softer until it was but a bare vibration.

I opened my mouth to prolong the last faint echoes.

It was midmorning when I awoke in my hammock, wearing the clothes Florinda had brought me.

Automatically, and almost without thought, I went outside and across the clearing to the little house.

The door was locked.

I knocked repeatedly and I called out, but there was no answer.

I tried to force the windows open but they too were locked.

I was so shaken I was on the verge of tears.

I ran down the hill to the small clearing beside the road, the only spot where a car could be parked. Isidore Baltazar's van was not there.

I walked along the dirt road for quite some time, looking for fresh tire tracks. There were none.

More confused than ever, I returned to the house.

Knowing that it would be useless to look for the women in their rooms, I stood in the middle of the inside patio and yelled for Florinda at the top of my voice.

There was no sound, except for the echo of my own voice settling around me.

No matter how many times I reviewed what Florinda had said, I could not come up with a satisfying explaination.

The only thing I could be sure of was that Florinda had come to my room in the middle of the night to bring me the clothes I was wearing. Her visit and her statement that Isidore Baltazar was back must have triggered a vivid dream in me.

To stop myself from speculating why I was alone in the house- not even the caretaker seemed to be about- I began to mop the floors.

Cleaning always had a soothing effect on me. I was done with all the rooms including the kitchen when I heard the distinct sound of a Volkswagen engine.

I ran down the hill and flung myself at Isidore Baltazar even before he got out of the van; almost jerking him to the ground.

He put his arms around me in a tight embrace, and laughed, "I still can not get over it. You were the one the nagual told me so much about. Do you know that I nearly passed out when they greeted you?"

He did not wait for my comment. He hugged me again, and laughing, lifted me off the ground.

Then, as if some restraint had broken free within him, he began to talk nonstop.

He said that he had known about me for a year. The nagual had told him that he was entrusting a weird girl to him.

The nagual had described that girl metaphorically as 'twelve o'clock in the morning of a clear day which is neither windy nor calm, neither cold nor hot, but alternates between all those, driving one nuts.'

Isidore Baltazar confessed that being the pompous ass that he was, he knew instantaneously that the nagual was referring to his girlfriend.

I cut him short by asking, "Who is your girlfriend?"

He made a sharp movement with his hand, as if positively displeased by my words.

He snapped, "This is not a story of facts. This is a story of ideas so that you would see how idiotic I am."

His annoyance quickly gave way to a brilliant smile. "I actually believed I could find out for myself who that girl was." He paused for an instant, and then added softly, "I had even involved a married woman with children in my search."

He heaved a deep sigh then grinned and said, "The moral of my story is that in the sorcerers' world one has to cancel out the ego or it is curtains for us; for in that world, there is no way for average persons like ourselves to predict anything."

Then, seeing that I was weeping, he held me off at arm's length and gazed at me anxiously. He asked, "What is the matter, nibelunga?"

I laughed in between my sobs, dried my tears, and said, "Nothing really."

I added cynically, "I do not have an abstract mentality that can worry about the world of abstract stories."

In as hard a tone as I could muster, I added, "I worry about the here and now. You have got no idea what I have been through in this house."

He retorted with deliberate harshness, "Of course, I have a very good idea. I have been at it for years."

He regarded me with an inquisitor's eye and asked, "What I want to know is, why did you not tell me you had been with them already?"

In confusion, I mumbled, "I was about to, but I did not feel it was important."

Then my voice acquired a firm and steady ring as words poured involuntarily out of me. I said, "It turns out that meeting them was the only important thing I have ever done."

To hide my surprise, I immediately began to complain that I had been left in the house all by myself.

With a sudden irrepressible smile, he whispered, "I did not have a chance to let you know that I was off to the mountains with the nagual."

I assured him, "I forgot all about that. I am talking about today.

"This morning when I awoke, I expected you to be here. I was certain you had spent the night in the little house, sleeping on a straw mat. When I could not find you, I panicked."

Seeing his puzzled face, I told him of Florinda's midnight visit, of my subsequent dream, and of finding myself alone in the house upon awakening this morning.

I sounded incoherent. My thoughts and words were all mixed up. However, I could not stop talking.

I finally put an end to my diatribe by saying, "There are so many things I cannot accept. Yet I cannot refute them either."

Isidore Baltazar did not say a word. He kept staring at me with his eyebrows raised in an inquiring, mocking arch; as if expecting me to continue.

His face was thin and drawn and the color of smoke. His skin exuded a strange coolness and a faint scent of earth, as if he had spent his days underground in a cave.

All thought of my turmoil vanished as I gazed into his ominous left eye, with its terrible, merciless gaze.

At that moment it no longer mattered what the authentic truth was nor what the illusion was- the dream within a dream.

I laughed out loud, feeling as light as the wind. I could feel an unbearable weight being lifted off my shoulders as I kept staring into his wizard's eye.

I recognized the eye that mirrors emptiness. Florinda, Mariano Aureliano, Esperanza, and the caretaker all had such an eye. Preordained for all time to be without feeling and without emotion.

Then, as if his eye had revealed enough, an inside lid, as in a lizard's eye, shut over his left pupil.

Before I had a chance to comment on his wizard's eye, Isidore Baltazar closed both eyes for an instant.

When he opened them again, they were exactly alike; dark and shiny with laughter; the wizard's eye but an illusion.

He put one arm around my shoulders, and walked with me up the hill.

Just before reaching the house, he said, "Get your things. I will wait for you in the car."

I thought it odd that he would not come in with me, but at the time I did not think of asking him why.

Only as I was gathering my few belongings did it occur to me that perhaps he was afraid of the women.

But then that possibility made me laugh out loud because I suddenly knew, with a certainty that astonished me, that the only thing Baltazar was not afraid of was women.

I was still laughing when I reached the van at the bottom of the hill.

I opened my mouth to explain to Isidore Baltazar the cause of my mirth, when a strange, fierce emotion flooded me; a stab so strong I could not speak.

What I felt was not sexual passion. Neither was it platonic affection. And it was not the feeling I felt for my parents or brothers or friends.

I simply loved Isidore Baltazar with a love that was untainted by any expectation, doubts, or dread.

As if I had spoken out loud, Isidore Baltazar embraced me so fiercely I could hardly breathe.

We drove off very slowly.

I craned my neck out the window; hoping to catch a glimpse of the caretaker amidst the fruit trees.

I slumped back in my seat, and mused, "It feels odd to leave like this. In a way Florinda said goodbye to me last night. But I wish I could have thanked Esperanza and the caretaker."

The dirt road wound around the hill, and as we reached a sharp bend, the back of the little house came into view.

Isidore Baltazar stopped the car and turned off the engine. He pointed to the frail old man sitting on a crate in front of the house.

I wanted to get out of the car and run up the hill, but Isidore Baltazar held me back.

He whispered, "Just wave at him."

The caretaker rose from the crate. The wind made his loose jacket and pants flap against his limbs, as if they were wings.

He laughed out loud, then bent backwards, and seemingly with the wind's momentum did a double back flip.

For a moment he appeared to be suspended high in the air.

He never landed on the ground but vanished, as if the wind had sucked him away.

I whispered in awe, "Where did he go?"

Isidore Baltazar giggled with childlike delight, saying, "To the other side. That was his way of saying good-bye to you."

He set the car in motion again.

As if he were baiting me, he glanced at me mockingly from time to time. He finally asked, "What is it that is troubling you, nibelunga?"

I said accusingly, "You know who he is, do you not? He is not the caretaker, is he?"

Isidore Baltazar frowned slightly, then after a long silence he reminded me that, for me, the nagual Juan Matus was Mariano Aureliano.

He assured me that there must be a good reason that I knew him under that name. He said, "I am sure there is an equally sound justification for the old man not to reveal his name to you."

I argued that, since I knew who Mariano Aureliano was, I did not see the purpose of the old man's pretension.

Smugly, I stressed, "And, I do know who the caretaker is."

I glanced sideways to see Isidore Baltazar's reaction, but his face revealed nothing.

He said, "Like all the people in the sorcerers' world, the caretaker is a sorcerer, But you do not know who he is."

He turned to me briefly, then fixed his attention again on the road, and said, "After all these years, I do not know who any of them really is; including the nagual Juan Matus.

"As long as I am with him, I think I know who he is. The moment his back is turned, however, I am at a loss."

Almost dreamily, Isidore Baltazar went on to say that in the world of everyday life, our subjective states are shared by all our fellow men.

For this reason, we know at all times what our fellow men would do under given circumstances.

I shouted, "You are wrong. You are deadly wrong. Not to know what our fellow men would do under given circumstances is what is exciting about life.

"That is one of the few exciting things left. Do not tell me you want to do away with it."

Isidore Baltazar explained patiently, "We do not know what our fellow men would exactly do, but we could write down a list of possibilities which would hold true; a very long list, I grant you, yet a finite list.

"In order to write down this list, we do not have to ask our fellow men for their preferences. All we have to do is place ourselves in their position, and write down the possibilities pertinent to us. Those will be true to everybody because we share them. Our subjective states are shared by all of us."

He said that our subjective knowledge of the world is known to us as common sense.

It might be slightly different from group to group, and from culture to culture, yet in spite of all these differences, common sense is sufficiently homogeneous to warrant the statement that the everyday world is an intersubjective world.

Isidore Baltazar stressed, "With sorcerers, however, the common sense we are accustomed to is no longer in operation. They have another kind of common sense because they have other kinds of subjective states."

I asked, "Do you mean that they are like beings from another planet?"

Isidore Baltazar laughed, and said, "Yes. They are like beings from another planet."

I asked, "Is that why they are so secretive?"

He remarked thoughtfully, "I do not think secretive is the right term. They deal differently with the everyday world.

"Their behavior appears secretive to us because we do not share the same meaning.

"And since we do not have any standards to measure what is common sense to them, we opt for believing that their behavior is secretive."

I interjected, "They do whatever we do. They sleep. They cook their meals. They read. Yet I could never catch them in the act. Believe me, they are secretive."

Smiling, he shook his head, and he insisted, "You saw what they wished you to see. And yet they were not hiding anything from you. You could not see. That is all."

I was about to contradict him, but I did not want him to dislike me.

It was not so much that I felt he was right because I really did not understand what he was talking about. Rather, I felt that all my snooping around had not given me a clue as to who these people were or what they did.

Sighing, I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the backrest.

As we drove, I told him again of my dream; how real it was to have seen him asleep, snoring on the straw mat. I told him of my conversation with Mariano Aureliano; the heat of his hand.

The more I spoke, the more I was convinced that it had not been a dream at all. I drove myself into such a state of agitation I ended up weeping.

Finally I said, "I do not know what they did to me. Florinda kept telling me that I was dreaming-awake.

"I am not quite sure whether I am awake or dreaming even now."

Isidore Baltazar nodded, then said softly, "The nagual Juan Matus refers to it with me as 'heightened awareness'."

I repeated, "Heightened awareness."

The words rolled easily off my tongue even though they sounded exactly the opposite of dreaming-awake.

I vaguely remembered hearing them before. Either Florinda or Esperanza had used the term, but I could not recall in what connection.

The words were on the verge of suggesting some meaning, albeit vague, but my brain was already too dulled by my unsuccessful attempts to recount my daily activities at the witches' house.

Regardless of how hard I tried, there were certain episodes I could not recall.

I fumbled for words that somehow paled and died away in front on my very eyes, like a vision half seen and half remembered.

It was not that I had forgotten anything, but rather that images came to me fragmented like pieces in a puzzle that did not quite fit.

This forgetfulness was a physical sensation as if a fog had settled over certain parts of my brain.

I said, "So dreaming-awake and heightened awareness are the same?"

More than a question, that was a statement whose meaning escaped me.

I shifted in my seat, pulled my legs under me, and sat facing Isidoro Baltazar.

The sun outlined his profile. His black curly hair falling over his high forehead, his sculpted cheekbones, his strong nose and chin, and finely chiseled lips gave him a Roman appearance.

I said, "I must still be in heightened awareness. I never noticed you before."

The car swayed on the road as he threw his head back and laughed.

He slapped his thigh, and stated, "You are definitely dreaming-awake. Do you not remember that I am short, brown, and homely looking?"

I giggled. Not because I agreed with his description, but because it was the only thing I remembered him saying in the lecture he gave the day I formally met him.

My merriment was quickly replaced by an odd anxiety. It seemed that months had passed, instead of only two days, since we came to the house of the witches.

As if I had spoken out loud, Isidore Baltazar said, "Time passes differently in the sorcerers' world. And we experience it differently."

He went on to say that one of the most difficult aspects of his apprenticeship was dealing with sequences of events in terms of time. Often they were all mixed up in his mind; confused images that sank deeper whenever he tried to focus on them.

He said, "Only now, with the nagual's help, do I remember aspects and events of his teachings that took place years ago."

I asked, "How does he help you? Does he hypnotize you?"

He said, "He makes me shift levels of awareness. And when he does, it is not only that I remember past events, but I relive them."

I insisted, "How does he do that? I mean, make you shift?"

He answered, "Until recently I believed that it was accomplished by a sharp pat on my back, between my shoulder blades.

"But now I am quite certain that his mere presence makes me shift levels of awareness."

I insisted again, "Then he does hypnotize you?"

He shook his head, and said, "Sorcerers are experts at shifting levels of awareness. Some are so adept that they can shift the level of awareness of others."

I nodded. Already I had numerous questions, but he gestured for patience.

He went on, "Sorcerers make one see that the whole nature of reality is different from what we believe it to be; that is, from what we have been taught it to be.

"Intellectually, we are willing to tease ourselves with the idea that culture predetermines who we are, how we behave, what we are willing to know, or what we are able to feel.

"But we are not willing to embody this idea and accept it as a concrete, practical proposition.

"And the reason for that is that we are not willing to accept that culture also predetermines what we are able to perceive.

"Sorcery makes us aware of different realities and different possibilities, not only about the world, but also about ourselves, to the extent that we no longer are able to believe in even the most solid assumptions about ourselves and our surroundings."

I was surprised that I could absorb his words so easily, when I did not really understand them.

He went on, "A sorcerer is not only aware of different realities, but he or she uses that knowledge in practicalities.

"Sorcerers know, not only intellectually but also practically, that reality, or the world as we know it, consists only of an agreement extracted out of every one of us.

"That agreement could be made to collapse, since it is only a social phenomenon. And when it collapses, the whole world collapses with it."

Seeing that I could not follow his argument, he tried to present it from another angle.

He said that the social world defines perception to us in proportion to its usefulness in guiding us through the complexity of experience in everyday life.

The social world sets limits to what we perceive; sets limits to what we are capable of perceiving.

He stressed, "To a sorcerer, perception can go beyond these agreed-upon parameters. These parameters are constructed and buttressed by words, by language, and by thoughts. In other words, by agreement."

In an effort to understand his premise, I tentatively asked, "And sorcerers do not agree?"

Beaming at me, he said, "They do agree, but their agreement is different.

"Sorcerers break the normal agreement; not only intellectually, but also physically, or practically, or whatever one wants to call it.

"Sorcerers collapse the parameters of socially determined perception. But to understand what sorcerers mean by that, one has to become a practitioner.

"That is, one has to be committed. One has to lend the mind as well as the body.

"It has to be a conscious, fearless surrender."

I immediately wondered what kind of ritual might be involved and I asked suspiciously, The body? What do they want with my body?"

Isidore Baltazar laughed, and said, "Nothing, nibelunga."

Then, in a serious yet kind tone, he added that neither my body nor my mind was yet in any condition to follow the arduous path of the sorcerer.

Seeing that I was about to protest, he quickly allowed that there was nothing wrong with either my mind or my body.

I interjected forcefully, "Wait a minute now!"

Isidore Baltazar ignored my interruption and went on to say that the world of sorcerers is a sophisticated world; that it was not enough to understand its principles intuitively. One also needed to assimilate them intellectually.

He explained, "Contrary to what people believe, sorcerers are not practitioners of obscure esoteric rituals, but rather, they stand ahead of our times.

"And the mode of our time is reason. We are reasonable men as a whole.

"Sorcerers, however, are beings that reason, which is a different matter altogether. Sorcerers have a romance with ideas.

"They have cultivated reason to its limits, for they believe that only by fully understanding the intellect can they embody the principles of sorcery without losing sight of their own sobriety and integrity.

"This is where sorcerers differ drastically from us. We have very little sobriety and even less integrity."

He glanced at me briefly and smiled.

I had the unpleasant impression that he knew exactly what I was thinking, or rather, that I could not think at all.

I had understood his words, but their meaning had eluded me.

I did not know what to say. I did not even know what to ask.

For the first time in my life, I felt utterly stupid.

It did not make me feel inadequate, though, for I realized that he was right. My interest in intellectual matters had always been shallow and superficial. To have a romance with ideas was a totally alien concept to me.

We were at the U.S. border in Arizona in a few hours, yet the drive was unwarrantedly exhausting.

I wanted to talk, but I did not know what to say- or rather, I could not find the words to express myself.

I felt somehow intimidated by all that had happened. It was a new feeling for me.

Sensing my uncertainty and discomfort, Isidoro Baltazar began to talk.

In a candid manner, he admitted to being baffled by the sorcerers' world even to this day, and even after so many years of studying and interacting with them.

He said, "And when I say studying, I really mean studying."

He laughed and slapped his thigh to emphasize his statement.

He said, "Only this morning I was clobbered by the sorcerers' world in ways impossible to describe."

He spoke in a tone that was half assertion and half complaint, yet there was such a delighted power in his voice; some wonderful inner strength in him, that I felt uplifted.

He gave me the impression that he could do anything, endure anything, and allow nothing to matter.

I sensed a will in him and an ability to overcome all obstacles.

He said, "Imagine, I really thought I was gone with the nagual for only two days."

Laughing, he turned to me and shook me with his free hand.

I had been so absorbed by the sound and the vitality of his voice, that I failed to understand what he was talking about.

I asked him to repeat what he had said. He did, and I still missed what he meant.

I was suddenly irritated by my inability to grasp what he was trying to tell me, and I finally said, "I do not get what is exciting you so much. You were gone for two days. What of it?"

He loudly exclamed,"What?" This made me jump in my seat, and I banged my head on the roof of the van.

He peered straight into my eyes but did not say a word.

I knew he was not accusing me of anything, yet I felt that he was making fun of my moroseness, my changing moods, or my lack of attention.

He parked the car on the side of the road, turned off the engine, then shifted in his seat to face me.

There was a nervous excitement in his voice- a restlessness and vitality- as he said, "And now I want you to tell me all you have experienced."

He assured me that the sequential order of events did not mean a thing.

His compelling, engaging smile was so reassuring, I told him at length all I remembered.

He listened attentively, chuckling from time to time, urging me with a movement of his chin every time I faltered.

When I finished, he said, "So, all this has happened to you in..."

He paused, gazing at me with shining eyes, then casually added, "two days?"

I said firmly, "Yes."

He crossed his arms over his chest in an expansive gesture.

He said, "Well, I have news for you."

The merry look in his eyes belied the seriousness of his tone and the set expression of his straight lips.

He continued, "I have been gone for twelve days. But I thought it was only two.

"I thought you were going to appreciate the irony of it because you had kept a better count of time. You did not, though. You are just like me. We have lost ten days."

Bewildered, I mumbled, "Ten days."

I turned to look out the window.

I did not say a word for the rest of the trip. It was not that I did not believe him. And it was not that I did not want to talk.

There was nothing for me to say even after I bought the L.A. Times in the first newsstand that carried it, and I corroborated that, indeed, I had lost ten days.

But were they really lost?

I asked myself that question, yet I did not wish a reply.