He held the pipe in front of my face. I thought he was handing it over to me. I stretched out my hand to take it, but he quickly drew it back.
‘This pipe was given to me by my benefactor,’ he said. ‘In turn I will pass it on to you. But first you must get to know it. Every time you come here I will give it to you. Begin by touching it. Hold it very briefly, at first, until you and the pipe get used to each other. Then put it in your pocket, or perhaps inside your shirt. And finally put it to your mouth. All this should be done little by little in a slow, careful way. When the bond has been established [la amistad esta hecha] you will smoke from it. If you follow my advice and don’t rush, the smoke may become your preferred ally too.’
He handed me the pipe, but without letting go of it. I stretched my right arm towards it.
‘ With both hands,’ he said.
I touched the pipe with both hands for a very brief moment. He did not extend it to me all the way so that I could grasp it, but only far enough for me to touch it. Then he pulled it back.
‘ The first step is to like the pipe. That takes time!’
‘ Can the pipe dislike me?”
‘No. The pipe cannot dislike you, but you must learn to like it so that when the time of smoking comes for you, the pipe will help you to be unafraid.’
‘ What do you smoke, don Juan?’
‘This!’
He opened his collar and exposed to view a small bag he kept under his shirt, which hung from his neck like a medallion. He brought it out, untied it, and very carefully poured some of its contents into the palm of his hand.
As far as I could tell, the mixture looked like finely shredded tea leaves, varying in colour from dark brown to light green, with a few specks of bright yellow.
He returned the mixture to the bag, closed the bag, tied it with a leather string, and put it under his shirt again.
‘ What kind of mixture is it?’
‘There are lots of things in it. To get all the ingredients is a very difficult undertaking. One must travel afar. The little mushrooms [los honguitos] needed to prepare the mixture grow only at certain times of the year, and only in certain places.’
‘Do you have a different mixture for each type of aid you need?’
‘ No! There is only one smoke, and there is no other like it.’
He pointed to the bag hanging against his chest, and lifted the pipe which was resting between his legs.
‘These two are one! One cannot go without the other. This pipe and the secret of this mixture belonged to my benefactor. They were handed down to him in the same way my benefactor gave them to me. The mixture, although difficult to prepare, is replenishable. Its secret lies in its ingredients, and in the way they are treated and mixed. The pipe, on the other hand, is a lifetime affair. It must be looked after with infinite care. It is hardy and strong, but it should never be struck or knocked about. It should be handled with dry hands, never when the hands are sweaty, and should be used only when one is alone. And no one, absolutely no one, should ever see it, unless you mean to give it to somebody. That is what my benefactor taught me, and that is the way I have dealt with the pipe all my life.’
‘What would happen if you should lose or break the pipe?’
He shook his head, very slowly, and looked at me.
‘I would die!’
‘Are all the sorcerers’ pipes like yours?’
‘Not all of them have pipes like mine. But I know some men who do.’
‘Can you yourself make a pipe like this one, don Juan?’ I insisted. ‘Suppose you did not have it, how could you give me one if you wanted to do so?’
‘If I didn’t have the pipe, I could not, nor would I, want to give one. I would give you something else instead.’
He seemed to be somehow cross at me. He placed his pipe very carefully inside the sheath, which must have been lined with a soft material because the pipe, which fitted tightly, slid in very smoothly. He went inside the house to put his pipe away.
‘Are you angry at me, don Juan?’ I asked when he returned. He seemed surprised at my question.
‘No! I’m never angry at anybody! No human being can do anything important enough for that. You get angry at people when you feel that their acts are important. I don’t feel that way any longer.’
Tuesday, 26 December 1961
The specific time to replant the ‘shoot’, as don Juan called the root, was not set, although it was supposed to be the next step in taming the plant-power.
I arrived at don Juan’s house on Saturday, 23 December, early in the afternoon. We sat in silence for some time, as usual. The day was warm and cloudy. It had been months since he had given me the first portion.
‘It is time to return the weed to the earth,’ he said suddenly. ‘But first I am going to fix a protection for you. You will keep it and guard it, and it is for you alone to see. Since I am going to fix it I will also see it. That is not good, because, as I told you, I am not fond of the devil’s weed. We are not one. But my memory will not live long; I am too old. You must keep it from the eyes of others, however, for so long as their memory of having seen it lasts, the power of the protection is harmed.”
He went into his room and pulled three burlap bundles out from under an old straw mat. He came back to the porch and sat down.
After a long silence he opened one bundle. It was the female Datura he had collected with me; all the leaves, flowers, and seedpods that he had stacked up before were dry. He took the long piece of root shaped like the letter Y and tied the bundle again.
The root had dried and shrivelled and the bars of the fork had become more widely separated and more contorted. He put the root on his lap, opened his leather pouch, and pulled out his knife. He held the dry root in front of me.
‘This part is for the head,’ he said, and made the first incision on the tail of the Y, which in an upside-down position resembled the shape of a man with his legs spread out.
‘This is for the heart,’ he said, and cut close to the joint of the Y. Next he chopped the tips of the root, leaving about three inches of wood on each bar of the Y. Then, slowly and patiently he carved the shape of a man.
The root was dry and fibrous. In order to carve it, don Juan made two incisions and peeled the fibres between them to the depth of the cuts. Nevertheless, when he came to details, he chiselled the wood, as when he shaped the arms and the hands. The final product was a wiry figurine of a man, arms folded over the chest and hands in a clasping position.
Don Juan got up and walked to a blue agave growing in front of the house, next to the porch. He took the hard thorn of one of the centre, pulpy leaves, bent it, and rotated it three or four times. The circular motion almost detached it from the leaf; it hung loose. He bit on it, or rather, he held it between his teeth, and yanked it out. The thorn came out from the pulp, bringing with it a white tail, two feet long. Still holding the thorn between his teeth, don Juan twisted the fibres together between the palms of his hands and made a string, which he wrapped around the figurine’s legs to bring them together. He encircled the lower part of the body until the string was all used up; then very skillfully he worked the thorn like an awl inside the front part of the body under the folded arms, until the sharp tip emerged as though popping out of the figurine’s hands. He used his teeth again and, by pulling gently, brought the thorn nearly all the way out. It looked like a long spear protruding from the figure’s chest. Without looking at the figure any more, don Juan placed it inside his leather pouch. He seemed exhausted from the effort. He lay down on the floor and fell asleep.