Version 2007.03.11

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

### Chapter 9

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I was living in another reality that didn't yet fully belong to me, but to which I had access through these people.

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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, yet everything around me exuded familiarity. However, I couldn't decide why it was all so well known to me.

Perhaps I am still asleep, I thought. How do I know this isn't 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 dream, half memory- 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 had with everyone there 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 doggedly to 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 wasn't 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 wasn't 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 must be ill," I mumbled to myself in dismay. "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 didn't 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.

"Damn it! I can't go to the bathroom in a water closet!" I yelled.

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

"How fortunate it's already morning," I laughed. "No one will ever know that I'm too fainthearted to go to the outhouse in the dark."

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

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

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.

"What makes you so sure you're awake?" she asked.

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

"What a temper!" Florinda exclaimed, lowering her head until her forehead touched mine.

Her eyes were wide. "You're dreaming-awake," she added, enunciating each word carefully.

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.

"Where is the outhouse?" I growled.

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

"But don't bring the outhouse to your bed. That's called lazy dreaming; the surest way to soil your bed. Go to the outhouse yourself in a flick of an eyelid."

To my utter horror, I couldn't 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 didn't seem to care what was happening to me.

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

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

She removed my heavy wollen 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 couldn't 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; regardless of how close I moved my face to hers.

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

"Do it! Will yourself there!"

I nodded emphatically. I knew that I was indeed dreaming-awake, or rather, that I was living in another reality that didn't 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, to make sure this was the real thing. It was.

Then I was back in the room, but I didn't know how.

Florinda said something flattering about my dreaming capacity.

I paid little attention to her remarks, for I was distracted by the pile of blankets against the wall. I hadn't 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 didn't 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.

"Whose room is this?" I asked. "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 wouldn't 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 about what she might be referring to.

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

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

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

She seemed to be wrestling with some deep problem, her expression changing from thoughtful to worried several times. "You're home," she finally said, her voice deep with emotion.

Before I could remind her that she hadn't 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 neither.

It was a soothing, familiar sound: It 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 hadn't 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 couldn't afford to let the topic of the conversation slip by.

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

"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?" I asked hesitantly.

Florinda nodded her head affirmatively, a faint smile curling her lips as if she found my reluctance to mention the word blew amusing. "Those are the ones the old nagual blew to the new nagual: They are women, and they are like you."

"Like me?" I asked uncertainly.

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

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

"I've seen them," she said noncommittally.

"How many women have been blown to Isidore Baltazar?" I asked with ill-concealed displeasure; yet the mere thought of them was both exciting and alarming.

Florinda was positively gleeful at my reaction. "A few.

"And they don't resemble you physically, yet they are like you.

"What I mean is that they resemble one another the way my fellow sorceresses and I resemble one another," Florinda explained:

"Weren't you, yourself, surprised at how much alike we looked when you first met us?"

Acknowledging my nod, she 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.

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

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

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

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

"How can I find them if I don't know them? It's impossible."

"Not for a witch," she remarked casually:

"As I already said, you don't 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 said, "It's the glow of sorcerers."

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

"We need the nagual for that," Florinda said and pointed to the nagual Mariano Aureliano, who was standing in the shadowy corner of the room.

I hadn't noticed him at all, but I didn't 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. "I'll show you that glow," he said then 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. "Aren't you 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.

"Don't you think I am a little too old to be carried around?" I cautioned him.

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

In one swift motion he sprang to his feet. Tucking his arms behind my knees, he shifted me into a comfortable position and stepped out into the hall, but my head didn't 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 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. I couldn't 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.

It made me so dizzy 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.

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

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

"Whatever you do, don't let go of me," he added with great urgency as he pushed me up on his back so my head was above his.

"What could possibly happen if I let go?" I asked in a tone that betrayed my growing apprehension. "I would just fall onto the ground, wouldn't I?" My voice had gotten terribly screechy.

Mariano Aureliano laughed softly but didn't 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 rose in the air: We became weightless.

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 couldn't determine, but something had changed.

Perhaps it was only the air: It was heavier, 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, all of their features gleamed in that green light, yet I could make out nothing of their faces.

I didn't recognize any of them. I couldn't even determine whether they were males or females; they were simply people.

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

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

I pressed my chin firmly against his head, fearing 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. 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 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.

"Remember that glow," Mariano Aureliano murmured. His voice echoed in my head. "It's the glow... of the surem."

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, with a strange ripping sound.

Then the wind turned against me; I was certain it meant to annihilate me. I cried out in pain as a particulariy icy gust seared my lungs. A coldness spread through my body until I felt myself grow stiff.

Whether it was Mariano Aureliano who had spoken or the wind self, I couldn't tell. The wind roared in my ears, blotting 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.