On an impulse after attending thebaptism of a friend's child in the city of Nogales, Arizona, I decided to crossthe border into Mexico.  

As I was leaving my friend'shouse, one of her guests, a woman named Delia Flores, asked me for a ride toHermosillo.  

She was a dark-complexionedwoman, perhaps in her mid-forties, of medium height and stout build.  

She was powerfully big, withstraight black hair arranged into a thick braid.  

Her dark, shiny eyes highlighteda shrewd, yet slightly girlish, round face.

Certain that she was a Mexicanborn in Arizona, I asked her if she needed a tourist card to enter Mexico.

"Why should I need a touristcard to enter my own country?" she retorted, widening her eyes withexaggerated surprise.  

"Your mannerism and speechinflection made me think you were from Arizona," I said.  

"My parents were Indiansfrom Oaxaca," she explained, "but I am a ladina."  

"What's a ladina?"  

"Ladinos are sharp Indianswho grow up in the city," she elucidated. There was an odd excitement inher voice.  

I was at a loss to understand asshe added, "They take up the ways of the white man, and they are so goodat it that they can fake their way into anything."  

"That's nothing to be proudof," I said judgingly. "It's certainly not too complimentary to you,Mrs. Flores."  

The contrite expression on herface gave way to a wide grin:  

"Perhaps not to a realIndian or to a real white man," she said cheekily, "but I amperfectly satisfied with it myself."

She leaned toward me, and added,"Do call me Delia. I've the feeling we're going to be greatfriends."  

Not knowing what to say, Iconcentrated on the road.  

We drove in silence to the checkpoint.  

The guard asked for my touristcard, but didn't ask for Delia's. He didn't seem to notice her- no words orglances were exchanged between them.  

When I tried to talk to Delia,she forcefully stopped me with an imperious movement of her hand.  

Then the guard looked at mequestioningly. Since I didn't say anything, he shrugged his shoulders and wavedme on.  

"How come the guard didn'task for your papers?" I asked when we were some distance away.  

"Oh, he knows me," shelied, and knowing that I knew she was lying, she burst into a shamelesslaughter.  

"I think I frightened him,and he didn't dare to talk to me," she lied again.  

And again she laughed.  

I decided to change the subject,if only to save her from escalating her lies.

I began to talk about topics ofcurrent interest in the news; but mostly we drove in silence.  

It was not an uncomfortable orstrained silence. It was like the desert around us; wide and stark, and oddlyreassuring.  

"Where shall I dropyou?" I asked as we drove into Hermosillo.

"Downtown," she said."I always stay in the same hotel when I'm in the city.  

"I know the owners well, andI'm sure I can arrange for you to get the same rate I get."  

I gratefully accepted heroffer.  

The hotel was old and rundown.  

The room I was given opened to adusty courtyard.  

A double, four-poster bed and amassive, old-fashioned dresser shrunk the room to claustrophobicdimensions.  

A small bathroom had been added,but a chamber pot was still under the bed: It matched the porcelain washing seton the dresser.  

The first night was awful.  

I slept fitfully, and in mydreams I was conscious of whispers and shadows moving across the walls.  

Shapes of things, and monstrousanimals rose from behind the furniture.  

People materialized from thecorners; pale, ghostlike.  

The next day I drove around thecity and its surroundings; and that night, although I was exhausted, I stayedawake.  

When I finally fell asleep into ahideous nightmare, I saw a dark, amoeba-shaped creature stalking me at the footof the bed.  

Iridescent tentacles hung fromits cavernous crevices.  

As the creature leaned over me,it breathed, making short, raspy sounds that died out into a wheeze.  

My screams were smothered by itsiridescent ropes tightening around my neck.

Then all went black as thecreature- which somehow I knew to be female- crushed me by lying on top ofme.  

That timeless moment betweensleep and wakefulness was finally broken by the insistent banging on my door,and the concerned voices of the hotel guests out in the hall.  

I turned on the light, andmumbled some apologies and explanations through the door.  

With the nightmare still stickingto my skin like sweat, I went into the bathroom.  

I stifled a scream as I lookedinto the mirror: The red lines across my throat and the evenly spaced red dotsrunning down my chest looked like an unfinished tattoo.  

Frantically, I packed my bags. Itwas three o'clock in the morning when I walked out into the deserted lobby topay my bill.  

"Where are you going at thishour?" Delia Flores asked, emerging from the door behind the desk:  

"I heard about yournightmare. You had the whole hotel worried."  

I was so glad to see her I put myarms around her, and began to sob.  

"There, there," shemurmured soothingly, stroking my hair:  

"If you want to, you cancome and sleep in my room. I'll watch over you."  

"Nothing in this world willmake me stay in this hotel," I said. "I'm returning to Los Angelesthis very instant."  

"Do you often havenightmares?" she casually asked, leading me toward the creaky old couch inthe corner.  

"Off and on," I said."I've suffered from nightmares all my life. I've gotten sort of used tothem.  

"But tonight it wasdifferent: It was the most real, the worst nightmare I've ever had."  

She gave me an appraising, long lookand then slowly dragging her words said, "Would you like to get rid ofyour nightmares?"  

As she spoke, she gave a halfglance over her shoulder toward the door, as if afraid that someone might belistening there. "I know someone who could truly help you."  

"I would like that verymuch," I whispered, untying the scarf around my neck to show her the redmarks.  

I told her the explicit detailsof my nightmare.  

I asked, "Have you ever seenanything like this?"  

"Looks pretty serious,"she pronounced, carefully examining the lines across my throat. "Youreally shouldn't leave before seeing the healer I have in mind.  

"She lives about a hundredmiles south of here; about a two-hour ride."  

The possibility of seeing ahealer was most welcome to me: I had been exposed to them since birth inVenezuela.  

Whenever I was sick, my parentscalled a doctor, and as soon as he left, our Venezuelan housekeeper wouldbundle me up and take me to a healer.  

As I grew older and no longerwanted to be treated by a witchdoctor- none of my friends were- she convincedme that it couldn't possibly do any harm to be twice protected.  

The habit was so ingrained in methat, when I moved to Los Angeles, I made sure to see a doctor as well as ahealer whenever I was ill.  

"Do you think she will seeme today?" I asked.  

Seeing her uncomprehendingexpression, I reminded her that it was already Sunday.  

"She'll see you anyday," Delia assured me. "Why don't you just wait for me here, andI'll take you to her. It won't take me but a minute to get my belongingstogether."  

"Why would you go out ofyour way to help me?" I asked, suddenly disconcerted by her offer."After all, I'm a perfect stranger to you."  

"Precisely!" sheexclaimed, rising from the couch.  

She gazed down at me indulgently,as though she could sense the nagging doubts rising within me.  

"What better reason couldthere be?" she asked rhetorically.  

"To help a perfect strangeris an act of folly or one of great control.

"Mine is one of greatcontrol."  

At a loss for words, all I coulddo was to stare into her eyes, which seemed to accept the world with wonder andcuriosity.  

There was something strangelyreassuring about her.  

It was not only that I trustedher, but I felt as if I had known her all my life: I sensed a link between us;a closeness.  

And yet, as I watched herdisappear behind the door to get her belongings, I considered grabbing my bagsand bolting for the car.  

I didn't want to end up in apredicament by being daring as I had so many times before.  

But some inexplicable curiosityheld me back despite the familiar nagging feeling of alarm.  

I had waited for nearly twentyminutes when a woman, wearing a red pantsuit and platform shoes, stepped out ofthe door behind the clerk's desk.  

She paused underneath thelight.  

With a studied gesture, she threwher head back so that the curls of her blond wig shimmered in the light.  

"You didn't recognize me,did you?" she laughed gleefully.  

"It's really you,Delia," I exclaimed, staring at her, open-mouthed.  

"What do you think?"Still cackling, she stepped out with me onto the sidewalk toward my car parkedin front of the hotel.  

She flung her basket and duffelbag in the back seat of my small convertible, then sat beside me.  

Delia said, "The healer I'mtaking you to see says that only the young and the very old can afford to lookoutrageous."  

Before I had a chance to remind herthat she was neither, she confided that she was much older than she appeared tobe.  

Her face was radiant as sheturned toward me and exclaimed, "I wear this outfit because I like todazzle my friends!"  

Whether she meant me or thehealer, she didn't say: I certainly was dazzled.  

It wasn't only her clothes thatwere different: Her whole demeanor had changed.

There wasn't a trace of thealoof, circumspect woman who had traveled with me from Nogales toHermosillo.  

"This will be a mostenchanting trip," she pronounced, "especially if we put the topdown."  

Her voice was happy and dreamy."I adore traveling at night with the top down."  

I readily obliged her.  

It was almost four o'clock in themorning by the time we left Hermosillo behind.

The sky, soft and black andspeckled with stars, seemed higher than any other sky I had ever seen.  

I drove fast, yet it seemed wewere not moving.  

The gnarled silhouettes of cactusand mesquite trees appeared and disappeared endlessly under the headlights: Theyseemed to be all the same shape; all the same size.  

"I packed us some sweetrolls and a full thermos of champurrado," Delia said, reaching for herbasket in the back seat. "It'll be morning before we get to the healer'shouse."  

She poured me half a cup of thethick hot chocolate made with cornmeal, and fed me, bite by bite, a sort ofDanish roll.  

"We're driving through amagical land," she said as she sipped the delicious chocolate. "Amagical land populated by warring people."

"What warring people arethey?" I asked, trying not to sound patronizing.  

"The Yaqui people ofSonora," she said and kept quiet, perhaps measuring my reaction.  

"I admire the Yaqui Indiansbecause they have been in constant war," she continued:  

"The Spaniards first; andthen the Mexicans- as recently as 1934- have felt the savagery, cunning, andrelentlessness of the Yaqui warriors."

"I don't admire war orwarlike people," I said.  

Then, by way of apologizing formy belligerent tone, I explained that I came from a German family that had beentorn apart by the war.  

"Your case isdifferent," she maintained. "You don't have the ideals offreedom."  

"Wait a minute!" Iprotested. "It is precisely because I espouse the ideals of freedom that Ifind war so abhorrent."  

"We are talking about twodifferent kinds of war," she insisted.

"War is war," Iinterjected.  

"Your kind of war," shewent on, ignoring my interruption, "is between two brothers who are bothrulers and are fighting for supremacy."

She leaned toward me, and in anurgent whisper added, "The kind of war I'm talking about is between aslave and the master who thinks that he owns people. Do you see thedifference?"  

"No. I don't," Iinsisted stubbornly, and repeated that war is war no matter what thereason.  

"I can't agree withyou," she said, and sighing loudly leaned back in her seat:  

"Perhaps the reason for ourphilosophical disagreement," she continued, "is that we come fromdifferent social realities."  

Astonished by her choice ofwords, I automatically slowed the car.  

I didn't mean to be rude, but tohear her spout academic concepts was so incongruous and unexpected that Icouldn't help but laugh.  

Delia didn't take offense: Shewatched me, smiling, thoroughly pleased with herself, and said, "When youget to know my point of view, you may change your mind."  

She said this so seriously andyet so kindly that I felt ashamed of myself for laughing at her.  

"You may even apologize forlaughing at me," she added as if she had read my thoughts.  

"I do apologize,Delia," I said and truly meant it. "I'm terribly sorry for myrudeness.  

"I was so surprised by yourstatements that I didn't know what to do." I glanced at her briefly, andadded contritely, "So I laughed."

"I don't mean socialapologies for your conduct," she said, shaking her head in disappointment."I mean apologies for not understanding the plight of man."  

"I don't know what you'retalking about," I said uneasily. I could feel her eyes boring throughme.  

"As a woman, you shouldunderstand that plight very well," she said. "You have been a slaveall your life."  

"What are you talking about,Delia?" I asked, irritated by her impertinence.  

Then I immediately calmed down,certain that the poor Indian had no doubt an insufferable, overwhelminghusband.  

"Believe me, Delia, I'mquite free. I do as I please."  

"You might do as you please,but you're not free," she persisted:

"You are a woman, and thatautomatically means that you're at the mercy of men."  

"I'm not at the mercy ofanybody!" I yelled.  

I couldn't tell whether it was myassertion or my tone of voice that made Delia burst into loud guffaws. Shelaughed at me as hard as I had laughed at her before.  

"You seem to be enjoyingyour revenge," I said, peeved. "It's your turn to laugh now, isn'tit?"  

Suddenly serious, she said,"It's not the same at all.  

"You laughed at me becauseyou felt superior.  

"A slave that talks like amaster always delights the master for a moment."  

I tried to interrupt her and tellher that it hadn't even crossed my mind to think of her as a slave, or of me asa master, but she ignored my efforts.  

In the same solemn tone she saidthat the reason she had laughed at me was because I had been rendered stupidand blind to my own womanhood.  

"What's with you,Delia?" I asked, puzzled. "You're deliberately insultingme."  

"Certainly," shereadily agreed and giggled, completely indifferent to my rising anger.  

She slapped my knee with aresounding whack.  

"What concerns me," shewent on, "is that you don't even know that by the mere fact that you're awoman you're a slave."  

Mustering up all the patience Iwas capable of, I told Delia that she was wrong: "No one is a slavenowadays."  

"Women are slaves,"Delia insisted. "Men enslave women.

"Men befog women.  

"Men's desire to brand womenas their property befogs us," she declared:  

"That fog hangs around ournecks like a yoke."  

My blank look made hersmile.  

She lay back on the seat,clasping her hands on her chest.  

"Sex befogs women," sheadded softly, yet emphatically:  

"Women are so throughlybefogged that they can't consider the possibility that their low status in lifeis the direct end result of what is done to them sexually."  

"That's the most ridiculousthing I've ever heard," I pronounced.

Then, rather ponderously, I wentinto a long diatribe about the social, economic, and political reasons forwomen's low status.  

At great length I talked aboutthe changes that have taken place in the last decades; how women have beenquite successful in their fight against male supremacy.  

Peeved by her mocking expression,I couldn't refrain from remarking that she was no doubt prejudiced by her ownexperiences; by her own perspective in time.

Delia's whole body shook withsuppressed mirth.  

She made an effort to containherself and said, "Nothing has really changed.  

"Women are slaves. We'vebeen reared to be slaves.  

"The slaves who are educatedare now busy addressing the social and political abuses committed againstwomen.  

"None of the slaves, though,can focus on the root of their slavery- the sexual act- unless it involves rapeor is related to some other form of physical abuse."  

A little smile parted her lips asshe said that religious men, philosophers, and men of science have forcenturies maintained, and of course still do, that men and women must follow abiological, God-given imperative having to do directly with their sexualreproductive capabilities.  

"We have been conditioned tobelieve that sex is good for us," she stressed:  

"This inherent belief andacceptance has incapacitated us to ask the right question."  

"And what question isthat?" I asked, trying hard not to laugh at her utterly erroneousconvictions.  

Delia didn't seem to have heardme: She was silent for so long I thought she had dozed off.  

I was startled when she said,"The question that no one dares ask is, what does it do to us women to getlaid?"  

"Really, Delia," Ichided in mock consternation.  

"Women's befogging is sototal, we will focus on every other issue of our inferiority except the onethat is the cause of it all," she maintained.  

"But, Delia, we can't dowithout sex," I laughed. "What would happen to the human race if wedon't..."

She checked my question and mylaughter with an imperative gesture of her hand.  

"Nowadays, women likeyourself, in their zeal for equality, imitate men," she said:  

"Women imitate men to suchan absurd degree that the sex they are interested in has nothing to do withreproduction.  

"They equate freedom withsex, without ever considering what sex does to their physical and emotionalwell-being.  

We have been so thoroughlyindoctrinated, we firmly believe that sex is good for us."  

She nudged me with her elbow, andthen, as if she were reciting a chant, she added in a sing-song tone, "Sexis good for us. It's pleasurable. It's necessary.  

"It alleviates depression,repression, and frustration.  

"It cures headaches, low andhigh blood pressure. It makes pimples disappear.  

"It makes your tits and assgrow. It regulates your menstrual cycle.

"In short, it's fantastic!It's good for women.  

"Everyone says so. Everyonerecommends it."  

She paused for an instant, andthen pronounced with dramatic finality, "A fuck a day keeps the doctoraway."  

I found her statements terriblyfunny, but then I sobered abruptly as I remembered how my family and friends,including our family doctor, had suggested- not so crudely to be sure- sex as acure for all the adolescent ailments I had had growing up in a strictlyrepressive environment.  

The doctor had said that once Iwas married, I would have regular menstrual cycles. I would gain weight. Iwould sleep better. I would be sweet tempered.

"I don't see anything wrongwith wanting sex and love," I said defensively:  

"Whatever I've experiencedof it, I have liked very much.  

"And no one befogs me. I'mfree! I choose whom I want and when I want it."  

There was a spark of glee inDelia's dark eyes when she said, "Choosing your partner does in no wayalter the fact that you're being fucked."

Then with a smile, as if tomitigate the harshness of her tone, she added, "To equate freedom with sexis the ultimate irony:  

"Men's befogging is socomplete, so total, it has zapped us of the needed energy and imagination tofocus on the real cause of our enslavement."  

She stressed, "To want a mansexually or to fall in love with one romantically are the only two choicesgiven to the slaves.  

"And all the things we havebeen told about these two choices are nothing but excuses that pull us intocomplicity and ignorance."  

I was indignant with her. Icouldn't help but think that she was some kind of repressed, man-hatingshrew.  

"Why do you dislike men somuch, Delia?" I asked in my most cynical tone.  

"I don't dislike them,"she assured me:  

"What I passionately objectto is our reluctance to examine how thoroughly indoctrinated we are.  

"The pressure put upon us isso fierce and self-righteous that we have become willing accomplices.  

"Whoever dares to differ isdismissed and mocked as a man-hater or as a freak."  

Blushing, I glanced at hersurreptitiously. I decided that she could talk so disparagingly about sex andlove because she was, after all, old: Physical desires were all behindher.  

Chuckling softly, Delia put herhands behind her head:  

"My physical desires are notbehind me because I'm old," she confided, "but because I've beengiven a chance to use my energy and imagination to become something differentthan the slave I was raised to be."

I felt thoroughly insulted ratherthan surprised that she had read my thoughts.

I began to defend myself, but mywords only triggered more laughter.  

As soon as she stopped, sheturned toward me.  

Her face was as stern and seriousas that of a teacher about to scold a pupil.

"If you are not a slave, howcome they reared you to be a Hansfrau?" she asked. "And how come allyou think about is to heiraten, and about your future Herr Gemahl who will Dichmitnehmen?"  

I laughed so hard at her use ofGerman I had to stop the car lest we have an accident.  

More interested in finding outwhere she had learned German so well, I forgot to defend myself from herunflattering remarks that all I wanted in life was to find a husband who wouldwhisk me away.  

Regardless of how hard I pleaded,however, she disdainfully ignored my interest in her German.  

"You and I will have plentyof time to talk about my German later," she assured me.  

She regarded me mockingly andadded, "Or about your being a slave."

Before I had a chance to retort,she suggested that we talk about something impersonal.  

"Like what?" I asked,starting the car again.  

Adjusting the seat in an almostreclining position, Delia closed her eyes.

"Let me tell you somethingabout the four most famous leaders of the Yaquis," she said softly:  

"I'm interested in leaders;in their successes or their failures."

Before I had a chance to grumblethat I really wasn't that interested in war stories, Delia said that CalixtoMuni was the first Yaqui leader who had attracted her attention.  

She wasn't a gifted storyteller:Her account was straightforward, almost academic, yet I was hanging on herevery word.  

Calixto Muni had been an Indianwho had sailed for years under the pirates' flag in the Caribbean.  

On his return to his nativeSonora, he led a military uprising against the Spaniards in the 1730s.Betrayed, he was captured and executed by the Spaniards.  

Then Delia gave me a long andsophisticated elucidation of how during the 1820s, after the Mexicanindependence was achieved and the Mexican government attempted to parcel outthe Yaqui lands, a resistance movement turned into a widespread uprising.  

It was Juan Bandera, she said,who, guided by the spirit itself, organized military units among theYaquis.  

Often armed only with bows andarrows, Bandera's warriors fought the Mexican troops for nearly ten years. In1832, Juan Bandera was defeated and executed.

Delia said that the next leaderof renown was Jose Maria Leyva, better known as Cajeme- the one who doesn'tdrink.  

He was a Yaqui from Hermosillo.He was educated, and had acquired vast military skills fighting in the Mexicanarmy.  

Thanks to those skills, heunified all the Yaqui towns. From his first uprising in the 1870s, Cajeme kepthis army in an active state of revolt.  

He was defeated by the Mexicanarmy in 1887 in Buatachive; a fortified mountain stronghold. Although Cajememanaged to escape and hide in Guay-mas, he was eventually betrayed andexecuted.  

The last of the great Yaquiheroes was Juan Maldonado, also known as Tetabiate- rolling stone.  

He reorganized the remnants ofthe Yaqui forces in the Bacatete Mountains from which he waged ferocious anddesperate guerrilla warfare against Mexican troops for more than tenyears.  

"By the turn of thecentury," Delia wrapped up her stories, "the dictator Porfirio Diazhad inaugurated a campaign of Yaqui extermination.  

"Indians were shot down asthey worked in the fields.  

"Thousands were rounded upand shipped to Yucatan to work in the henequen plantations, and to Oaxaca towork in the sugar cane fields."  

I was impressed by her knowledge,but I still couldn't figure out why she had told me all this.  

I said admiringly, "Yousound like a scholar; a historian in the Yaqui way of life. Who are youreally?"  

For an instant she seemed to betaken aback by my question, which was purely rhetorical, then she quicklyrecovered and said, "I've told you who I am.  

"I just happen to know agreat deal about the Yaquis. I live around them, you know."  

She was silent for a moment, thennodded as if she had reached some conclusion and added, "The reason I'vetold you about the Yaqui leaders is because it is up to us women to know thestrength and the weakness of the leader."

"Why?" I asked,puzzled. "Who cares about leaders? They are all nincompoops as far as I'mconcerned."  

Delia scratched her head underthe wig, then sneezed repeatedly and said with a hesitant smile,"Unfortunately, women must rally around men, lest women want to leadthemselves."  

"Whom are they going tolead?" I asked sarcastically.  

She looked at me, astonished,then rubbed her upper arm; the gesture, like her face, girlish.  

"It's quite difficult toexplain," she murmured. A peculiar softness had entered her voice; parttenderness, part indecision, part lack of interest:  

"I'd better not. I mightlose you completely.  

"All I can say, for the timebeing, is that I'm neither a scholar nor a historian. I'm a storyteller, and Ihaven't told you the most important part of my tale yet."  

"And what might thatbe?" I asked, intrigued by her desire to change the subject.  

"All I've given you so faris factual information," she said. "What I haven't mentioned is theworld of magic from which those Yaqui leaders operated.  

"To them, the actions ofwind and shadows, and of animals and plants were as important as the doings ofmen.  

"That's the part thatinterests me the most."  

"The actions of wind andshadows, and of animals and plants?" I repeated mockingly.  

Unperturbed by my tone, Delianodded.  

She pushed herself up in theseat, pulled off the blond curly wig and let the wind blow through her straightblack hair.  

"Those are the BacateteMountains," she said, pointing to the mountains to the left of us, barelyoutlined against the semidarkness of the dawn sky.  

"Is that where we aregoing?" I asked.  

"Not this time," shesaid, sliding down into her seat again.  

A cryptic smile played around herlips as she half turned toward me.  

"Perhaps one day you'll havea chance to visit those mountains," she mused, closing her eyes.  

"The Bacatetes are inhabitedby creatures of another world; of another time."  

"Creatures of another world,of another time?" I echoed her in mock seriousness. "Who or what arethey?"  

"Creatures," she saidvaguely. "Creatures that don't belong to our time, to our world."

"Now, now, Delia. Are youtrying to scare me?" I couldn't help laughing as I turned to glance ather.  

Even in the dark, her face shone.She looked extraordinarily young, the skin molded without wrinkles over curvingcheeks, chin, and nose.  

"No. I'm not trying to scareyou," she said matter-of-factly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear."I'm simply telling you what is common knowledge around here."  

"Interesting. And what kindof creatures are they?" I inquired, biting my lip to suppress my giggles."And have you seen them?"  

"Of course I've seenthem," she said indulgently. "I wouldn't be talking about them if Ihadn't."  

She smiled sweetly, without atrace of resentment. "They are beings that populated the earth at anothertime and now have retreated to isolated spots."  

At first I couldn't help laughingout loud at her gullibility.  

And then, seeing how serious andhow convinced she was that these creatures indeed existed, I decided thatrather than make fun of her I should accept her credulousness. [*credulousness- tendency to believe too readily and therefore to be easilydeceived]  

After all, she was taking me to ahealer, and I didn't want to antagonize her with my rational probes.  

"Are those creatures theghosts of the Yaqui warriors who lost their lives in battle?" Iasked.  

She shook her head negatively,then, as if afraid someone might overhear, she leaned closer and whispered inmy ear, "It's a well-known fact that those mountains are inhabited byenchanted creatures: birds that speak, bushes that sing, stones that dance.  

"Creatures that can take anyform at will."  

She sat back and regarded meexpectantly. "The Yaquis call these beings surem.  

They believe that the surem areancient Yaquis who refused to be baptized by the first Jesuits who came toChristianize the Indians."  

She patted my arm affectionately."Watch out. They say that the surem like blond women."  

She cackled with delight."Maybe that's what your nightmare was all about. A surem trying to stealyou."

"You don't really believewhat you're saying, do you?" I asked derisively, unable to keep myannoyance in check.  

"No. I've just made up thatthe surem like blonds," she said soothingly. "They don't like blondsat all."  

Although I didn't turn to glanceat her, I could feel her smile and the humorous twinkle in her eyes.  

It irked me to no end. I thoughther to be either very candid, very coy, or, even worse, very mad.  

"You don't believe thatcreatures from another world really exist, do you?" I snappedillhumoredly.  

Then, afraid I had offended her,I glanced at her with a word of half-anxious apology ready.  

But before I could say anything,she answered in the same loud, ill-tempered tone of voice I had used.  

"Of course I believe theyexist. Why shouldn't they exist?"  

"They just don't!" Isnapped sharply and authoritatively, then quickly apologized.  

I told her about my pragmaticupbringing and how my father had guided me to realize that the monsters in mydreams, and the playmates I had as a child- invisible to everyone, but me, ofcourse- were nothing but the product of an overactive imagination.  

"From an early age I wasreared to be objective and to qualify everything," I stressed. "In myworld, there are only facts."  

"That's the problem withpeople," Delia remarked. "They are so reasonable that just hearing aboutit lowers my vitality."  

"In my world," Icontinued, ignoring her comment, "there are no facts anywhere aboutcreatures from another world, but only speculations and wishful thinking,and," I emphasized, "fantasies of disturbed minds."  

"You can't be thatdense!" she cried out delightedly in between fits of laughter, as if myexplanation had surpassed all her expectations.

"Can it be proven that thosecreatures exist?" I challenged.  

"What would the proofconsist of?" she inquired with an air of obvious false diffidence. [*diffidence- lack of self-confidence]  

"If someone else can seethem, that would be a proof," I said.

"You mean that if, forinstance, you can see them, that'll be proof of their existence?" sheinquired, bringing her head close to mine.

"We can certainly beginthere."  

Sighing, Delia leaned her headagainst the backrest of her seat and closed her eyes.  

She was silent for such a longtime I was certain she had fallen asleep, and I was thus startled when she satup abruptly and urged me to pull over to the side of the road. She had torelieve herself, she said.  

To take advantage of our stop, I,too, went into the bushes.  

As I was about to pull up myjeans, I heard a loud male voice say, "How delicious!" and sigh justbehind me.  

With my jeans still unzipped Idashed to where Delia was.  

"We'd better get out of herefast!" I cried out. "There is a man hiding in the bushes."  

"Nonsense," she brushedmy words aside. "The only thing behind the bushes is a donkey."  

"Donkeys don't sigh likelecherous men," I pointed out, then I repeated what I had heard the mansay.  

Delia collapsed into helplesslaughter, then seeing how distressed I was, she held up her hand in aconciliatory gesture. "Did you actually see the man?"  

"I didn't have to," Iretorted. "It was enough to hear him."  

She lingered for a moment longer,then headed toward the car.  

Right before we climbed up theembankment to the road, she stopped abruptly and, turning toward me, whispered,"Something quite mysterious has happened. I must make you aware ofit."  

She led me by the hand back tothe spot where I had squatted, and right there, behind the bushes, I saw adonkey.  

"It wasn't therebefore," I insisted.  

Delia regarded me with apparentpleasure, then shrugged her shoulders and turned to the animal.  

"Little donkey," shecooed in a baby voice, "did you look at her butt?"  

She's a ventriloquist, I thought:She's going to make the beast talk.  

However, all the donkey did wasto bray loudly and repeatedly.  

"Let's get out ofhere," I pleaded, tugging at her sleeve. "It must have been the ownerwho's lurking in the bushes."  

"But this little darling hasno owner," she cooed in that same silly baby voice, and scratched theanimal's soft, long ears.  

"It certainly has anowner," I snapped. "Can't you see how well fed and groomed itis?"  

In a voice that was gettinghoarse with nervousness and impatience, I stressed again how dangerous it wasfor two women to be out alone on a deserted road in Sonora.  

Delia regarded me silently,seemingly preoccupied.  

Then she nodded as if inagreement and motioned me to follow her.

The donkey walked close behindme, nudging my buttocks repeatedly with its muzzle.  

Mumbling an imprecation, I turnedaround, but the donkey was gone.  

"Delia!" I cried out insudden fright. "What happened to the donkey?"  

Startled by my cry, a flock ofbirds rose in raucous flight.

The birds circled around us, thenflew east toward that fragile crack in the sky that marked the end of the nightand the start of the day.  

"Where is the donkey?"I asked again in a barely audible whisper.

"Right here in front ofyou," she said softly, pointing to a gnarled, leafless tree.  

"I can't see it."  

"You needglasses."  

"There is nothing wrong withmy eyes," I said tartly. "I can even see the lovely flowers on thetree."  

Astonished at the beauty of theglowing, snow-white morning glory-shaped blossoms, I moved closer. "Whatkind of a tree is it?"  

"Palo Santo."  

For one bewildering second Ithought that the donkey, which was emerging from behind the satiny, silver-graytrunk, had spoken.  

I turned to look at Delia.  

"Palo Santo!" shelaughed.  

Then the thought crossed my mindthat Delia was playing a joke on me. The donkey probably belonged to thehealer, who, no doubt, lived nearby.  

"What's so funny?"Delia asked, catching the all-knowing smirk on my face.  

"I've got a most horriblecramp," I lied.  

Holding my hands against mystomach I squatted, and said, "Please wait for me in the car."  

The instant she turned to go, Itook off my scarf and tied it around the donkey's neck. I enjoyed anticipatingDelia's surprise upon discovering, once we were at the healer's place, that Ihad known about her joke all along.  

However, any hope of seeing thedonkey or my scarf again were soon dashed. It took us almost two more hours toreach the healer's house.