Version 2007.03.15

## “Being in Dreaming: An Initiation into the Sorcerers' World” - ©1991 by Florinda Donner

### Chapter 17

The manner in which Isidore Baltazar was pacing about the room was different from the way he usually covered the length of his rectangular studio. Before, I had always been soothed by his pacing.

This time, however, his steps rang with a disturbing, oddly menacing sound. The image of a tiger prowling in the bushes- not ready to pounce on a victim but sensing that something was not quite right- came to mind.

I turned away from my paper and was about to ask him what was the matter, when he said, "We are going to Mexico!"

The way he said it made me laugh. The gruffness and seriousness of his voice warranted my joking question, "Are you going to marry me there?"

Glaring at me, he came to an abrupt halt. "This is no joke," he snapped angrily. "This is the real thing."

No sooner had he spoken than he smiled and shook his head. "What am I doing?" he said, making a humorous, helpless gesture. "I am getting angry at you, as if I had time for that. What a shame! The nagual Juan Matus warned me that we are crap to the very end."

He hugged me fiercely, as if I had been gone for a long time and had just returned.

"I don't think it's such a good idea for me to go to Mexico," I said.

"Cancel anything pending. There is no more time." He sounded like a military man giving orders.

Since I was in a festive mood, I couldn't help retorting, "Jawohl, mein Gruppenfuehrer!"

He lost his tightness and laughed.

As we drove through Arizona, a most peculiar feeling suddenly flooded me.

It was a bodily sensation something like a chill that extended from my womb to my entire body and brought goose bumps all over my skin; the knowledge that something was wrong.

There was in that feeling a new element I had not encountered before; absolute certainty, without a tinge of being right or wrong.

"I just had an intuition. Something is wrong!" I said, my voice rising against my will.

Isidore Baltazar nodded, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, "The sorcerers are leaving."

"When?" My cry was quite involuntary.

"Maybe tomorrow or the next day," he replied. "Or perhaps a month from now, but their departure is imminent." [* imminent- close in time; about to occur]

Sighing in relief, I slumped on my seat and consciously relaxed.

"They have been saying that they're leaving since the day I met them more than three years ago," I murmured, but I didn't really feel right about saying it.

Isidore Baltazar turned to glance at me, his face a mask of sheer contempt.

I could see the effort he was making to erase his dissatisfaction.

He smiled, then patted my knee and said softly, "In the sorcerers' world, we can't be that factual. If sorcerers repeat something to you until you're cynically bored with it, it is because they want to prepare you for it."

He fixed me momentarily with his hard, unsmiling eyes and added, "Don't confuse their magical ways with your dumbo ways."

I nodded wordlessly. His statement didn't anger me: I was too scared for that. I kept quiet.

The journey didn't take any time at all, or so it seemed to me. We took turns sleeping and driving, and by noon of the following day we were at the witches' house.

The instant the car's engine had been shut off, we both jumped out of the car, slammed the doors shut, and ran up to the witches' house.

"What's the idea?" the caretaker said.

He was standing by the front door, seemingly bewildered by our abrupt and loud arrival. "Are you two fighting or chasing each other?"

He looked at Isidore Baltazar and then at me. "Gee! Running like this."

"When are you leaving? When are you leaving?" I repeated mechanically, unable to contain my growing anxiety and fear any longer.

Laughing, the caretaker patted my back reassuringly and said, "I'm not going anyplace. You're not going to get rid of me that easily."

His words sounded genuine enough, but they didn't relieve my anxiety.

I searched his face, his eyes, to see if I could detect a lie. All I saw was kindness and sincerity.

Upon realizing that Isidore Baltazar was no longer standing beside me, I tensed up again. He had vanished, as noiselessly and swiftly as a shadow.

Sensing my agitation, the caretaker pointed with his chin to the house.

I heard Isidore Baltazar's voice, rising as if he were protesting, and then I heard his laughter.

"Is everybody here?" I asked, trying to move past the caretaker.

"They are inside," he said, blocking my way with his outstretched arms. "They can't see you at the moment."

Seeing that I was about to protest, he added, "They were not expecting you. They want me to talk to you before they do."

He took my hand and led me away from the door. "Let's go to the back and pick up some leaves," he proposed. "We'll burn them and leave the ashes for the water fairies. Perhaps they'll turn them into gold."

We didn't talk at all as we gathered pile after pile of leaves, but the physical activity and the sound of the rake scratching the ground soothed me.

It seemed we had been gathering and burning leaves for hours when suddenly I knew that there was someone else in the yard.

I turned my head quickly and saw Florinda.

Dressed in white pants and jacket, sitting on the bench under the zapote tree, she was like an apparition. Her face was shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat, and in her hand she held a lace fan. She seemed not quite human and so remote that I just stood motionless, absolutely amazed.

Wondering whether she was going to acknowledge me, I took a few hesitant steps toward her.

Upon noticing that she didn't in any way register my presence, I waited, undecided.

It wasn't that I was trying to protect myself against being refused or being slighted by her, but rather, some undetermined yet unconsciously understood rule kept me from demanding that she pay attention to me.

However, when the caretaker joined Florinda on the bench, I reached for the rake propped against a tree and inched my way toward them.

Grinning absentmindedly, the caretaker looked up at me, but his attention was on what Florinda was saying.

They spoke in a language I didn't understand, yet I listened to them, entranced.

Whether it was the language or her affection for the old man, I didn't know; but her raspy voice was unusually soft and strange, and hauntingly tender.

Abruptly, she rose from the bench.

As if she were propelled by some hidden spring, she zigzagged across the clearing like a hummingbird; pausing for an instant beside each tree; touching a leaf here and a blossom there.

I raised my hand to call her attention, but I was distracted by a bright blue butterfly weaving blue shadows in the air.

It flew toward me and alighted on my hand.

The wide, quivering wings fanned out and their shadow fell darkly over my fingers. It rubbed its head with its legs, and after opening and closing its wings several times, it took off again, leaving on my middle finger a ring in the shape of a triangular butterfly.

Certain that it was but an optical illusion, I shook my hand repeatedly. "It's a trick, isn't it?" I asked the caretaker in a shaky voice. "It's an optical illusion?"

The caretaker shook his head, and his face crinkled into a most radiant smile. "It's a lovely ring," he said, holding my hand in his. "It's a magnificent gift."

"A gift," I repeated. I had the briefest flash of insight, but it disappeared, leaving me lost and bewildered.

"Who put the ring on my finger?" I asked, staring at the jewel. The antennae and the thin, elongated body dividing the triangle were fashioned in white gold filigree and were studded with tiny diamonds.

"Didn't you notice the ring before?" the caretaker asked.

"Before?" I repeated, baffled. "Before what?"

"You've been wearing that ring since Florinda gave it to you," he replied.

"But when?" I asked, then held my hand over my mouth to stifle my shock. "I can't remember Florinda giving me the ring," I said more to myself than to him. "And why haven't I noticed the ring before?"

The caretaker shrugged, at a loss to explain my oversight, then suggested that perhaps I hadn't noticed the ring because it fit so perfectly on my finger.

He seemed about to say something else but stopped himself, and instead suggested that we pick up some more leaves.

"I can't," I said. "I have to talk to Florinda."

"You do?" he mused, in the manner of one hearing a ridiculous and probably unsound idea.

But he didn't persuade me to the contrary, and said, "She's gone for her walk," pointing with his chin toward the path that led to the hills.

"I'll catch up with her," I stated. I could see her white-clad figure weaving in and out of the high chaparral in the distance.

"She goes far," the caretaker warned me.

"That's no problem," I assured him.

I ran after Florinda, then slowed down before I caught up with her. She had the most beautiful walk: She moved with a vigorous, athletic motion, effortlessly, her back erect.

Sensing my presence, she came to an abrupt halt, then turned and held out her hands in a gesture of greeting. "How are you, darling?" she said, gazing at me. Her raspy voice was light and clear, and very soft.

In my eagerness to learn about the ring, I didn't even greet her properly. Stumbling over my words, I asked her if she had put the ring on my finger. "Is it mine now?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "It's yours by right." There was something in her tone; a sense of certainty that both thrilled and terrified me. Yet it didn't even occur to me to refuse the no doubt expensive gift.

"Does the ring have magical powers?" I asked, holding up my hand against the light so that each stone sparkled with a dazzling radiance.

"No," she laughed. "It doesn't have powers of any sort.

"It is a special ring, though. Not because of its value or because it belonged to me, but because the person who made this ring was an extraordinary nagual."

"Was he a jeweler?" I inquired. "Was he the same person who built the odd-looking figures in the caretaker's room?"

"The same one," she replied. "He wasn't a jeweler, though. He wasn't a sculptor either.

"The mere thought that he might be considered an artist made him laugh. Yet anyone who saw his work couldn't help but see that only an artist could have executed the extraordinary things he did."

Florinda moved a few steps away from me and let her eyes roam across the hills, as if she were searching for memories in the distance.

Then she turned once more toward me and in a barely audible whisper said that whatever this nagual made, whether it was a ring, a brick wall, tiles for the floor, the mysterious inventions, or simply a cardboard box, it invariably turned out to be an exquisite piece; not only in terms of its superb craftsmanship, but because it was imbued with something ineffable. [* ineffable- defying expression or description]

"If such an extraordinary individual made this ring, then it has to have some kind of power," I insisted.

"The ring in itself has no power, regardless of who made it," Florinda assured me:

"The power was in the making.

"The nagual who made this ring was aligned so thoroughly with what sorcerers call intent that he was able to produce this lovely jewel without him being a jeweler.

"The ring was an act of pure intent."

Reluctant to sound stupid, I didn't dare admit that I had no inkling what she meant by intent.

So I asked her what had prompted her to make me such a marvelous gift. "I don't think I deserve it," I added.

"You will use the ring to align yourself with intent," she said.

A wicked grin spread across her face as she added, "But, of course, you already know about aligning yourself with intent."

"I know nothing of the sort," I mumbled defensively, then confessed I didn't really know what intent was.

"You might not know what the word means," she said off-handedly, "but something in you intuits how to tap that force."

She brought her head close to mine and whispered that I had always used intent to move from dream to reality or to bring my dream- whatever it might have been- to reality.

She glanced at me expecting no doubt for me to draw the obvious conclusions.

Seeing my uncomprehending expression, she added, "Both the inventions in the the caretaker's room and the ring were made in dreams."

I still don't get it," I complained.

"The inventions frighten you," she said equably. "And the ring delights you. Since both are dreams, it can easily be the reverse..."

"You frighten me, Florinda. What do you mean?"

"This, dear, is a world of dreams. We are teaching you how to bring them about all by yourself."

Her dark, shiny eyes held mine for a moment, and then she added, "At the moment, all the sorcerers of the nagual Mariano Aureliano's party help you enter into this world and are helping you to stay in it now."

"Is it a different world? Or is it that I am different myself?"

"You are the same but in a different world." She was silent for a moment then conceded that I had more energy than before. "Energy that comes from your savings and from the loan all of us made you."

Her banking metaphor was very clear to me. What I still didn't grasp was what she meant by a different world.

"Look around you!" she exclaimed, holding her arms out wide. "This is not the world of everyday life."

She was silent for a long time, then in a voice that was but a low, gentle murmur, added, "Can butterflies turn into rings in the world of daily affairs; in a world that has been safely and rigorously structured by the roles assigned to all of us?"

I had no answer.

I looked around me; at the trees, at the bushes, at the distant mountains.

Whatever she meant by a different world still eluded me. The difference had to be a purely subjective one, was the thought that finally occurred to me.

"It isn't!" Florinda insisted, reading my thoughts. "This is a sorcerer's dream. You got into it because you have the energy."

She regarded me quite hopelessly, and said, "There is really no way to teach dreaming to women. All that can be done is to prop them up, so as to make them realize the enormous potential they carry in their organic disposition.

"Since dreaming for a woman is a matter of having energy at her disposal, the important thing is to convince her of the need to modify her deep socialization in order to acquire that energy.

"The act of making use of this energy is automatic; women dream sorcerers' dreams the instant they have the energy."

She confided that a serious consideration about sorcerers' dreams, stemming from her own shortcomings, was the difficulty of imbuing women with the courage to break new ground.

Most women- and she said she was one of them- prefer their safe shackles to the terror of the new.

"Dreaming is only for courageous women," she whispered in my ear.

Then she burst into loud laughter and added, "Or for those women who have no other choice because their circumstances are unbearable- a category to which most women belong, without even knowing it."

The sound of her raspy laughter had an odd effect on me.

I felt as if I had suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and remembered something quite forgotten while I had slept: "Isidoro Baltazar told me about your imminent departure. When are you leaving?"

"I'm not going anywhere yet." Her voice was firm, but it rang with a devastating sadness:

"Your dreaming teacher and I are staying behind. The rest are leaving."

I didn't quite understand what she meant, and to hide my confusion I made a joking comment.

"My dreaming teacher, Zuleica, hasn't said a single word to me in three years. In fact, she has never even talked to me. You and Esperanza are the only ones who have really guided me and taught me."

Florinda's gales of laughter reverberated around us, a joyous sound that brought me intense relief, and yet I felt puzzled.

"Explain something to me, Florinda," I began. "When did you give me this ring? How come I went from picking leaves with the caretaker to having this ring?"

Florinda's face was full of enjoyment as she explained that it could easily be said that picking leaves is one of the doors into a sorcerers' dream provided one has enough energy to cross that threshold.

She took my hand in hers and added, "I gave you the ring while you were crossing; therefore, your mind didn't record the act.

"Suddenly, when you were already in the dream, you discovered the ring on your finger."

I looked at her curiously. There was something in her elucidation I couldn't grasp; something so vague, so indistinct.

"Let's return to the house," she suggested, "and recross that threshold. Perhaps you'll be aware of it this time."

Leisurely, we retraced our steps, approaching the house from the back.

I walked a few steps ahead of Florinda so I could be perfectly aware of everything. I peered at the trees, the tiles, the walls; eager to detect the change or anything that might give me a clue to the transition.

I didn't notice anything, except that the caretaker was no longer there.

I turned around to tell Florinda that I most definitely had missed the transition, but she was not behind me.

She was nowhere in sight. She was gone and had left me all alone there.

I walked into the house.

It was, as had happened to me before, deserted.

This feeling of aloneness no longer frightened me; no longer gave me the sensation I had been abandoned.

Automatically, I went to the kitchen and ate the chicken tamales that had been left in a basket.

Then I went to my hammock and tried to put my thoughts in order.

I woke up and found myself lying on a cot, in a small, dark room.

I looked desperately about me, searching for some inkling of what was going on.

I sat bolt upright as I saw big, moving shadows lurking by the door.

Eager to find out whether the door was open and the shadows were inside, I reached under the cot for the chamber pot- which somehow I knew to be there- and threw it at the shadows. The pot landed outside with an excessively loud clatter.

The shadows vanished.

Wondering whether I had simply imagined them, I went outside.

Undecided, I stared at the tall mesquite fence encircling the clearing, and then I knew in a flash where I was: I was standing in back of the small house.

All this went through my mind as I searched for the chamber pot, which had rolled all the way to the fence.

As I bent to pick it up, I saw a coyote squeeze through the mesquite fence.

Automatically, I threw the pot at the animal, but the pot hit a rock instead.

Indifferent to the loud bang and to my presence, the coyote crossed the clearing.

It turned its head audaciously several times to look at me.

Its fur shimmered like silver. Its bushy tail swept over the various rocks like a magic wand. Each rock it touched came to life. The rocks hopped about with shiny eyes and moved their lips, asking peculiar questions in voices too faint to be heard.

I screamed; the rocks moved appallingly fast toward me.

I immediately knew that I was dreaming.

"This is one of my usual nightmares," I mumbled to myself. "With monsters and fear and everything else."

Convinced that once I had recognized and voiced the problem, I had neutralized its effects on me, I was about to give in and settle down to live a nightmare terror when I heard a voice say, "Test the track of dreams."

I wheeled around.

Esperanza was standing under the ramada tending to a fire on a raised platform made of cane heavily coated with mud. She looked strange and remote in the gleaming, moving light of the fire, as if she were separated from me by a distance that had nothing to do with space.

"Don't be frightened," she ordered.

Then she lowered her voice to a murmur and said, "We all share one another's dreams, but now you are not dreaming."

Doubt must have been written all over my face. "Believe me, you are not dreaming," she assured me.

I stepped a bit closer.

Not only did her voice sound unfamiliar, but she herself was different.

From where I was standing she was Esperanza; nonetheless, she looked like Zuleica.

I moved very close to her. She was Zuleica!

Young and strong and very beautiful. She couldn't have been more than forty years old. Her oval face was framed by curly, black hair that was turning grey. Hers was a smooth, pale face, highlighted by liquid, dark eyes set wide apart. Her gaze was indrawn, enigmatic, and very pure. Her short, thin upper lip hinted at severeness, while the full, almost voluptuous lower lip gave an indication of gentleness and also passion.

Fascinated by the change in her, I simply stared at her, enthralled.

I definitely must be dreaming, I thought.

Her clear laughter made me realize that she had read my thoughts.

She took my hand in hers and said softly, "You're not dreaming, my dear. This is the real me.

"I am your dreaming teacher. I am Zuleica.

"Esperanza is my other self. Sorcerers call it the dreaming body."

My heart thumped so violently it made my chest ache.

I almost choked with anxiety and excitement. I tried to pull my hand away, but she was holding me with a firm grip that I couldn't break.

I pressed my eyes tightly shut. More than anything I wanted her to be gone when I opened them again.

She was there, of course, her lips parted in a radiant smile.

I closed my eyes again, then jumped up and down and stomped on the ground as if I had gone berserk. With my free hand, I slapped my face repeatedly, until it burned with pain.

All to no avail: I couldn't wake up. Every time I opened my eyes, she was there.

"I think you've got enough," she laughed, and I commanded her to hit me.

She readily obliged, striking two sharp blows on my upper arms with a long, hard walking stick.

"It's no use, dear." She spoke slowly, as if she were very tired.

She took a deep breath and let go of my hand.

Then she spoke again. "You're not dreaming. And I am Zuleica.

"But when I dream, I am Esperanza; and something else, too, but I am not going to go into that now."

I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn't speak. My tongue was paralyzed and all I managed to produce was a whimpering, doglike sound.

I tried to relax with breathing I had learned in a yoga class.

She chuckled, seemingly taken with my antics: It was a reassuring sound that had a soothing effect on me: It radiated so much warmth, such deep confidence, that my body relaxed instantaneously.

"You're a stalker," she proceeded. "And you belong, by all rights, to Florinda."

Her tone brooked [* brook- put up with something or somebody unpleasant] no argument, no contradiction. "You're also a somnambulist and a great natural dreamer, and by virtue of your ability, you also belong to me."

One side of me wanted to laugh out loud and tell her that she was raving mad.

But another side of me was in complete agreement with her claim.

I asked hesitantly, "By which name do you want me to call you?"

"By which name?" she repeated, gazing at me as if it should have been self-evident. "I'm Zuleica. What do you think this is? A game? We don't play games here."

Taken aback by her vehemence, I could only mumble, "No, I don't think this is a game."

"When I dream, I am Esperanza," she continued, her voice sharp with intensity.

Her face was stern but radiant and open without pity all at the same time.

"When I don't dream, I am Zuleica.

"But whether I am Zuleica or Esperanza or anything else, it shouldn't matter to you. I am still your dreaming teacher."

All I could do was nod idiotically. Even if I had had something to say, I wouldn't have been able to do so.

A cold, clammy sweat of fear ran down my sides. My bowels were loose and my bladder about to burst. I wanted to go to the bathroom and relieve myself and puke.

I finally couldn't hold it any longer. It was a matter of disgracing myself right there or running to the outhouse.

I had enough energy to opt for the latter.

Zuleica's laughter was the laughter of a young girl: It followed me all the way to the outhouse.

When I returned to the clearing, she urged me to sit beside her on the nearby bench.

I automatically obeyed her and sat down heavily on the edge; nervously putting my hands over my closed knees.

There was an undeniable gleam of hardness but also of kindness in her eyes.

It came to me in a flash, as if I had known it before, that her ruthlessness was, more than anything else, an inner discipline.

Her relentless self-control had stamped her whole being with a most appealing elusiveness and secretiveness; not the secretiveness of overt and furtive behavior, but the secretiveness of the mysterious; the unknown.

That was the reason I followed her around, whenever I saw her, like a puppy dog.

"You've had two transitions today," Zuleica explained. "One from being normally awake to dreaming-awake and the other from dreaming-awake to being normally awake.

"The first was smooth and unnoticeable: The second was nightmarish.

"That's the normal state of affairs. All of us experience those transitions just like that."

I forced a smile. "But I still don't know what I did," I said. "I am not aware of any steps. Things just happen to me, and I find myself in a dream, without knowing how I got there."

There was a glint in her eyes.

"What is ordinarily done," she said, "is to start dreaming by sleeping in a hammock or in some kind of a strapping contraption hanging from a roof beam or a tree. Suspended in that fashion, we don't have any contact with the ground.

"The ground grounds us: Remember that. In that suspended position, a beginning dreamer can learn how energy shifts from being awake to dreaming and from dreaming a dream to dreaming-awake.

"All this, as Florinda already told you, is a matter of energy. The moment you have it, off you go.

"Your problem now is going to be whether you'll be able to save enough energy yourself since the sorcerers won't be able to lend it to you anymore."

Zuleica raised her brows in an exaggerated manner and added, "We'll see. I'll try to remind you, the next time we share one another's dreams."

Seeing the dismay on my face, she laughed with childlike abandon.

"How do we share one another's dreams?" I asked, gazing into her astonishing eyes: They were dark and shiny with beams of light radiatingting from the pupils.

Instead of answering, Zuleica dropped a few more sticks into the fire. Embers burst and spilled, and the light grew brighter.

For an instant she stood still, her eyes fixed on the flames as if she were gathering in the light.

She turned sharply and glanced briefly at me, then squatted and wrapped her strong, muscular arms around her shins.

Looking into the darkness, listening to the crackling fire, she rocked from side to side.

"How do we share one another's dreams?" I asked again.

Zuleica stopped rocking. She shook her head, then looked up, startled, as if suddenly awakened.

"That's something impossible for me to explain now," she stated. "Dreaming is incomprehensible.

"One has to feel it, not discuss it.

"As in the everyday world, before one explains something and analyzes it, one has to experience it."

She spoke slowly and deliberately. She admitted that it was important to explain as one went along. "Yet, explanations sometimes are premature. This is one of those times.

"One day it will all make sense to you," Zuleica promised, seeing the disappointment in my face.

With a quick, light motion, she rose to her feet and went to stare at the flames, as if her eyes needed to feed on the light.

Her shadow, thrown by the fire, grew enormous against the wall and the ceiling of the ramada.

Without so much as a nod, she turned with a sweep of her long skirt and disappeared inside the house.

Unable to move, I stood rooted to the spot.

I could barely breathe as the clatter of her sandals grew fainter and fainter.

"Don't leave me here!" I yelled in a panic-stricken voice. "There are things I need to know."

Zuleica materialized by the door instantly. "What do you need to know?" she asked in a detached, almost distracted tone.

"I'm sorry," I gabbled, glancing into her shiny eyes.

I examined her, almost hypnotized. "I didn't mean to shout," I added apologetically. "I thought you had gone into one of the rooms."

I looked at her beseechingly, hoping she would explain something to me.

She didn't. All she did was ask me again what it was I wanted to know.

"Would you talk to me when I see you again?" I blurted out the first thing that came into my head; afraid she would leave if I didn't keep on talking.

"When I see you again, we won't be in the same world as before," she said. "Who knows what we'll do there?"

"But a while ago," I insisted, "you yourself told me you are my dreaming teacher.

"Don't leave me in darkness. Explain things to me. The torment I experience is more than I can bear. I am split."

"You are," she admitted casually. "You certainly are split."

She looked at me, her eyes brimming with kindness. "But that's only because you don't let go of your old ways.

"You're a good dreamer. Somnambulist brains have formidable potential. That is... if you would cultivate your character."

I hardly heard what she said.

I tried to put my thoughts in order, but I couldn't.

A succession of images of events I didn't quite remember went through my mind with incredible speed.

My will exercised no control upon their order or their nature.

Those images were transformed into sensations that, however precise, refused to be defined; refused to be formulated into words, or even into thoughts.

Obviously aware of my incapacity, Zuleica's face lit up in an expansive grin.

"We have all helped the nagual Mariano Aureliano to push you into the second attention all along," she said slowly and softly:

"In there, we find fluency and continuity as we do in the world of everyday life.

"In both states, the practical is dominant. We act efficiently in both states.

"What we can't do in the second attention, however, is to break what we experience into pieces so we can handle it, so we can feel secure, so we can understand it."

While she talked, I was thinking to myself, 'She's wasting her time telling me all this. Doesn't she know that I am too stupid to understand her explanations?'

But she continued to speak, smiling broadly, obviously knowing that for me to admit that I was not too bright meant that I had changed somehow: Otherwise, I would never admit such a notion, even to myself.

"In the second attention," she continued, "or as I prefer to call it, when dreaming-awake, one has to believe that the dream is as real as the everyday world.

"In other words, one has to acquiesce.

"For sorcerers, all worldly or otherworldly pursuits are ruled by irreproachable acts, and in back of all irreproachable acts lies acquiescence.

"And acquiescence is not acceptance. Acquiescence involves a dynamic element: It involves action."

Her voice was very soft, and there was a feverish gleam in her eyes as she finished. "The moment one begins dreaming-awake, a world of enticing, unexplored possibilities opens up; a world where the ultimate audacity becomes a reality; where the unexpected is expected.

"That's the time when man's definitive adventure begins. The world becomes limitless with possibilities and wonder."

Zuleica was silent for a long time: She seemed to be debating what else to say.

"With the help of the nagual Mariano Aureliano, you once even saw the glow of the surem," she began, and her soft voice, turning wistful, became softer still:

"The surem are magical creatures that exist only in Indian legends; beings that sorcerers can see only while dreaming-awake at the deepest level.

"The surem are beings from another world: They glow like phosphorescent human beings."

She wished me good night, turned, and disappeared inside the house.

For a second I stood numbed, then I dashed after her.

Before I reached the threshold I heard Florinda behind me say, "Don't follow her!"

Florinda's presence was so unexpected that I had to lean against the wall, and wait for my heartbeat to return to normal.

"Come and keep me company," Florinda said. She was sitting on the bench, feeding the fire.

The elusive light in her eyes, and the ghostly whiteness of her hair was more like a memory than a vision.

I stretched out on the bench beside her, and, as if it were the most natural thing to do, I placed my head in her lap.

"Never follow Zuleica, or any one of us for that matter, unless you're asked to do so," Florinda said, combing her fingers through my hair:

"As you know now, Zuleica isn't what she appears to be. She's always more, much more than that.

"Never try to figure her out, because when you think you have covered all the possibilities, she'll flatten you out by being more than you can imagine in your wildest fantasies."

"I know," I sighed contentedly.

I could feel the tension draining From my face. I could feel it leaving my body.

"Zuleica is a surem From the Bacatete Mountains," I said with absolute conviction. "I've known about these creatures all along."

Seeing the astonishment in Florinda's face, I went on daringly, "Zuleica wasn't born like an ordinary human being. She was established. She's sorcery itself."

"No," Florinda contradicted me emphatically. "Zuleica was born. Esperanza wasn't."

She smiled down into my face and added, "This should be a worthy riddle for you."

"I think I understand," I murmured, "but I am too insensitive and can't formulate what I understand."

"You're doing fine," she chuckled softly. "Being as insensitive as you normally are, you must wait until you are really, really awake, 100 percent in order to understand. Now you are only 50 percent awake.

"The trick is to remain in heightened awareness. In heightened awareness, nothing is impossible to comprehend for us."

Feeling that I was about to interrupt her, she covered my lips with her hand and added, "Don't think about it now.

"Always remember that you're compulsive, even in heightened awareness, and your thinking is not thorough."

I heard someone moving in the shadows behind the bushes. "Who is there?" I asked, sitting up.

I looked all around me but couldn't see anyone.

Women's laughter echoed across the yard.

"You can't see them," Florinda said sleepily.

"And why are they hiding from me?" I asked.

Florinda smiled. "They are not hiding from you," she explained. "It's just that you can't see them without the nagual Mariano Aurliano's help."

I didn't know what to say to that. On one level, it made perfect sense, yet I found myself shaking my head. "Can you help me see them?"

Florinda nodded. "But your eyes are tired: They are tired from seeing too much. You need to sleep."

Purposefully I kept my eyes wide open; afraid to miss whoever was going to come out of the bushes the moment my attention slackened.

I stared at the leaves and the shadows, no longer knowing which was which, until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.