‘What kind of water is that, don Juan?’
‘Water of fruits and flowers from the canyon.’
He emptied the contents of the basin into an old clay mug that looked like a flowerpot. It was still very hot, so he blew on to it to cool it. He took a sip and handed me the mug.
‘ Drink now!’ he said.
I took it automatically, and without deliberation drank all the water. It tasted somewhat bitter, although the bitterness was hardly noticeable. What was very outstanding was the pungent odour of the water. It smelled like cockroaches.
Almost immediately I began to sweat. I got very warm, and blood rushed to my ears. I saw a red spot in front of my eyes, and the muscles of my stomach began to contract in painful cramps. After a while, even though I felt no more pain, I began to get cold and perspiration literally soaked me.
Don Juan asked me if I saw blackness or black spots in front of my eyes. I told him I was seeing everything in red.
My teeth were chattering because of an uncontrollable nervousness that came to me in waves, as if radiating out from the middle of my chest.
Then he asked me if I was afraid. His questions seemed meaningless to me. I told him that I was obviously afraid, but he asked me again if I was afraid of her. I did not understand what he meant and I said yes. He laughed and said that I was not really afraid. He asked if I still saw red. All I was seeing was a huge red spot in front of my eyes.
I felt better after a while. Gradually the nervous spasms disappeared, leaving only an aching, pleasant tiredness and an intense desire to sleep. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, although I could still hear don Juan’s voice. I fell asleep. But the sensation of my being submerged in a deep red persisted all night. I even had dreams in red.
I woke up on Saturday about 3:00 p.m. I had slept almost two days. I had a mild headache and an upset stomach, and very sharp, intermittent pains in my intestines. Except for that, everything else was like an ordinary waking. I found don Juan sitting in front of his house dozing. He smiled at me.
‘Everything went fine the other night,’ he said. ‘You saw red and that’s all that is important.’
‘ What would have happened if I had not seen red?’
‘ You would have seen black, and that is a bad sign.’
‘Why is it bad?’
‘When a man sees black it means he is not made for the devil’s weed, and he vomits his entrails out, all green and black.’
‘Would he die?’
‘I don’t think anyone would die, but he would be sick for a long time.’
‘What happens to those who see red?’
‘They do not vomit, and the root gives them an effect of pleasure, which means they are strong and of violent nature something that the weed likes. That is the way she entices. The only bad point is that men end up as slaves to the devil’s weed in return for the power she gives them. But those are matters over which we have no control. Man lives only to learn. And if he learns it is because that is the nature of his lot, for good or bad.’
‘ What shall I do next, don Juan ?’
‘Next you must plant a shoot [brote] that I have cut from the other half of the first portion of root. You took half of it the other night, and now the other half must be put into the ground. It has to grow and seed before you can undertake the real task of taming the plant.’
‘ How will I tame her?’
‘The devil’s weed is tamed through the root. Step by step, you must learn the secrets of each portion of the root. You must intake them in order to learn the secrets and conquer the power.’
‘Are the different portions prepared in the same way you did the first one?’
‘No, each portion is different’
‘What are the specific effects of each portion?’
‘I already said, each teaches a different form of power. What you took the other night is nothing yet. Anyone can do that. But only the brujo can take the deeper portions. I can’t tell you what they do because I don’t know yet whether she will take you. We must wait.’
‘When will you tell me, then?’
‘Whenever your plant has grown and seeded.’
‘If the first portion can be taken by anyone, what is it used for?’
‘ In a diluted form it is good for all the matters of manhood, old people who have lost their vigour, or young men who are seeking adventures, or even women who want passion.’
‘You said the root is used for power only, but I see it’s used for other matters besides power. Am I correct?”
He looked at me for a very long time, with a steadfast gaze that embarrassed me. I felt my question had made him angry, but I couldn’t understand why.
‘The weed is used only for power,’ he finally said in a dry, stern tone. ‘The man who wants his vigour back, the young people who seek to endure fatigue and hunger, the man who wants to kill another man, a woman who wants to be in heat — they all desire power. And the weed will give it to them! Do you feel you like her?’ he asked after a pause.
‘ I feel a strange vigour,’ I said, and it was true. I had noticed it on awakening and I felt it then. It was a very peculiar sensation of discomfort, or frustration; my whole body moved and stretched with unusual lightness and strength. My arms and legs itched. My shoulders seemed to swell; the muscles of my back and neck made me feel like pushing, or rubbing, against trees. I felt I could demolish a wall by ramming it.
We did not speak any more. We sat on the porch for a white.
I noticed that don Juan was falling asleep; he nodded a couple of times, then he simply stretched his legs, lay on the floor with his hands behind his head, and went to sleep. I got up and went to the back of the house where I burned up my extra physical energy by clearing away the debris; I remembered his mentioning that he would like me to help him clean up at the back of his house.
Later, when he woke up and came to the back, I was more relaxed.
We sat down to eat, and in the course of the meal he asked me three times how I felt. Since this was a rarity I finally asked, ‘Why do you worry about how I feel, don Juan? Do you expect me to have a bad reaction from drinking the juice?’
He laughed. I thought he was acting like a mischievous boy who has set up a prank and checks from time to time for the results. Still laughing, he said:
‘You don’t look sick. A while ago you even talked rough to me.’
‘I did not, don Juan,’ I protested. ‘I don’t ever recall talking to you like that.’ I was very serious on that point because I did not remember that I had ever felt annoyed with him.
‘ You came out in her defence,’ he said.
‘ In whose defence ?’
‘You were defending the devil’s weed. You sounded like a lover already.’
I was going to protest even more vigorously about it, but I stopped myself.
‘ I really did not realize I was defending her.’
‘Of course you did not. You don’t even remember what you said, do you?’
‘No, I don’t. I must admit it.’
‘You see. The devil’s weed is like that. She sneaks up on you like a woman. You are not even aware of it. All you care about is that she makes you feel good and powerful: the muscles swelling with vigour, the fists itching, the soles of the feet burning to run somebody down. When a man knows her he really becomes full of cravings. My benefactor used to say that the devil’s weed keeps men who want power, and gets rid of those who can’t handle it. But power was more common then; it was sought more avidly. My benefactor was a powerful man, and according to what he told me, his benefactor, in turn, was even more given to the pursuit of power. But in those days there was good reason to be powerful.’
‘ Do you think there is no reason for power nowadays?’
‘ Power is all right for you now. You are young. You are not an Indian. Perhaps the devil’s weed would be in good hands. You seem to have liked it. It made you feel strong. I felt all that myself. And yet I didn’t like it.’