‘ Can you tell me why, don Juan ?’
‘I don’t like its power! There is no use for it any more. In other times, like those my benefactor told me about, there was reason to seek power. Men performed phenomenal deeds, were admired for their strength and feared and respected for their knowledge. My benefactor told me stories of truly phenomenal deeds that were performed long, long ago. But now we, the Indians, do not seek that power any more. Nowadays, the Indians use the weed to rub themselves. They use the leaves and flowers for other matters; they even say it cures their boils. But they do not seek its power, a power that acts like a magnet, more potent and more dangerous to handle as the root goes deeper into the ground. When one arrives to a depth of four yards – and they say some people have – one finds the seat of permanent power, power without end. Very few humans have done this in the past, and nobody has done it today. I’m telling you, the power of the devil’s weed is no longer needed by us, the Indians. Little by little, I think we have lost interest, and now power does not matter any more. I myself do not seek it, and yet at one time, when I was your age, I too felt its swelling inside me. I felt the way you did today, only five hundred times more strongly. I killed a man with a single blow of my arm. I could toss boulders, huge boulders not even twenty men could budge. Once I jumped so high I chopped the top leaves off the highest trees. But it was all for nothing! All I did was frighten the Indians – only the Indians. The rest who knew nothing about it did not believe it. They saw either a crazy Indian, or something moving at the top of the trees.’
We were silent for a long time. I needed to say something.
‘It was different when there were people in the world,’ he proceeded, ‘people who knew a man could become a mountain lion, or a bird, or that a man could simply fly. So I don’t use the devil’s weed any more. For what? To frighten the Indians? [ ¿ Para que? ¿ Para asustar a los indios?]’
And I saw him sad, and a deep empathy filled me. I wanted to say something to him, even if it was a platitude.
‘Perhaps, don Juan, that is the fate of all men who want to know.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said quietly.
Thursday, 23 November 1961
I didn’t see don Juan sitting on his porch as I drove in. I thought it was strange. I called to him out loud and his daughter-in-law came out of the house.
‘He’s inside,’ she said.
I found he had dislocated his ankle several weeks before. He had made his own cast by soaking strips of cloth in a mush made with cactus and powdered bone. The strips, wrapped tightly around his ankle, had dried into a light, streamlined cast. It had the hardness of plaster, but not its bulkiness.
‘ How did it happen ?’ I asked.
His daughter-in-law, a Mexican woman from Yucatan, who was tending him, answered me.
‘ It was an accident! He fell and nearly broke his foot!’
Don Juan laughed and waited until the woman had left the house before answering.
‘Accident, my eye! I have an enemy nearby. A woman. “La Catalina!” She pushed me during a moment of weakness and I fell.’
‘Why did she do that?’
‘ She wanted to kill me, that’s why.’
‘ Was she here with you ?’
‘Yes!’
‘Why did you let her in?’
‘I didn’t. She flew in.’
‘ I beg your pardon!’
‘She is a blackbird [chanate]. And so effective at that. I was caught by surprise. She has been trying to finish me off for a long while. This time she got real close.’
‘Did you say she is a blackbird? I mean, is she a bird’?’
‘There you go again with your questions. She is a blackbird! The same way I’m a crow. Am I a man or a bird? I’m a man who knows how to become a bird. But going back to “la Catalina”, she is a fiendish witch! Her intent to kill me is so strong that I can hardly fight her off. The blackbird came all the way into my house and I couldn’t stop it.’
‘Can you become a bird, don Juan?’
‘ Yes! But that’s something we’ll take up later.’
‘Why does she want to kill you?’
‘Oh, there’s an old problem between us. It got out of hand and now it looks as if I will have to finish her off before she finishes me.’
‘Are you going to use witchcraft?’ I asked with great expectations.
‘Don’t be silly. No witchcraft would ever work on her. I have other plans! I’ll tell you about them some day.’
‘Can your ally protect you from her?’
‘No! The little smoke only tells me what to do. Then I must protect myself.’
‘How about Mescalito? Can he protect you from her?’
‘No! Mescalito is a teacher, not a power to be used for personal reasons.’
‘ How about the devil’s weed ?’
‘I’ve already said that I must protect myself, following the directions of my ally the smoke. And as far as I know, the smoke can do anything. If you want to know about any point in question, the smoke will tell you. And it will give you not only knowledge, but also the means to proceed. It’s the most marvellous ally a man could have.’
‘Is the smoke the best possible ally for everybody?’
‘It’s not the same for everybody. Many fear it and won’t touch it, or even get close to it. The smoke is like everything else; it wasn’t made for all of us.’
‘What kind of smoke is it, don Juan?’
‘The smoke of diviners!’
There was a noticeable reverence in his voice – a mood I had never detected before.
‘I will begin by telling you exactly what my benefactor said to me when he began to teach me about it. Although at that time, like yourself now, I couldn’t possibly have understood. “The devil’s weed is for those who bid for power. The smoke is for those who want to watch and see.” And in my opinion, the smoke is peerless. Once a man enters into its field, every other power is at his command. It’s magnificent! Of course, it takes a lifetime. It takes years alone to become acquainted with its two vital parts: the pipe and the smoke mixture. The pipe was given to me by my benefactor, and after so many years of fondling it, it has become mine. It has grown into my hands. To turn it over to your hands, for instance, will be a real task for me, and a great accomplishment for you – if we succeed! The pipe will feel the strain of being handled by someone else; and if one of us makes a mistake there won’t be any way to prevent the pipe from bursting open by its own force, or escaping from our hands to shatter, even if it falls on a pile of straw. If that ever happens, it would mean the end of us both. Particularly of me. The smoke would turn against me in unbelievable ways.’
‘How could it turn against you if it’s your ally?’
My question seemed to have altered his flow of thoughts. He didn’t speak for a long time.
‘The difficulty of the ingredients,’ he proceeded suddenly, ‘makes the smoke mixture one of the most dangerous substances I know. No one can prepare it without being coached. It is deadly poisonous to anyone except the smoke’s protégé! Pipe and mixture ought to be treated with intimate care. And the man attempting to learn must prepare himself by leading a hard, quiet life. Its effects are so dreadful that only a very strong man can stand the smallest puff. Everything is terrifying and confusing at the outset, but every new puff makes things more precise. And suddenly the world opens up anew! Unimaginable! When this happens the smoke has become one’s ally and will resolve any question by allowing one to enter into inconceivable worlds.
‘This is the smoke’s greatest property, its greatest gift. And it performs its function without hurting in the least. I call the smoke a true ally!’
As usual, we were sitting in front of his house, where the dirt floor is always clean and packed hard; he suddenly got up and went inside the house. After a few moments he returned with a narrow bundle and sat down again.
‘This is my pipe,’ he said.
He leaned over towards me and showed me a pipe he drew out of a sheath made of green canvas. It was perhaps nine or ten inches long. The stem was made of reddish wood; it was plain, without ornamentation. The bowl also seemed to be made of wood; but it was rather bulky in comparison with the thin stem. It had a sleek finish and was dark grey, almost charcoal