Joe Cortez parked his van at thebottom of a hill.  

He came around to open my doorand with a gallant flair helped me alight from the car.  

I felt relieved that we hadfinally stopped, although I couldn't imagine why: We were in the middle ofnowhere.  

We had been driving since earlymorning.  

The day's heat, the flat desert,the merciless sun, and the dust of the road were but a vague memory as Ibreathed in the cold, heavy night air.  

Agitated by the wind, the airswirled about us like something palpable, something alive.

There was no moon. And the stars,incredible in number and brilliance, only seemed to intensify our isolation.Under that uneasy splendor, the hills and the desert stretched all around us,nearly invisible, full of shadows and murmuring sounds.  

I tried to orient myself bylooking at the sky, but I didn't know how to identify the constellations.  

"We're facing east,"Joe Cortez whispered, as if I had spoken out loud; then patiently he tried toteach me the major constellations in the summer sky.  

I could only remember the starVega, because the name reminded me of a seventeenthcentury Spanish writer, Lopede Vega.  

While we sat in silence on thetop of his van looking at the sky, my mind wandered through the events of ourjourney.  

Less than twenty-four hours ago,while we were eating in a Japanese restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, he hadasked me, out of the blue, if I would accompany him to Sonora for a fewdays.  

"I would love to go," Isaid impulsively. "The school term is over. I'm free. When do you plan toleave?"  

"Tonight!" he said."In fact, right after we finish our meal."  

I laughed, certain that hisinvitation had been a joke. "I can't leave on such short notice," Ipointed out. "What about tomorrow?"

"Tonight," he insistedsoftly, then held out his hand to clasp mine in a formal handshake.  

Only when I saw the delight andmischief in his eyes did I realize that he wasn't saying good-bye but sealingan agreement.  

"When decisions are made,they have to be acted upon immediately," he pronounced, leaving the wordshanging in midair in front of me. Both of us stared at them as though we couldindeed see their size and shape.  

I nodded, hardly aware of havingmade the decision. The chance had been there, outside of me, ready, inevitable.I didn't have to do anything to bring it about.

Suddenly, with shatteringvividness, I remembered my other trip to Sonora a year before.  

My body stiffened with fear andshock as images- disconnected in their sequence- stirred deep within me.  

The events of that odd trip hadfaded from my conscious mind so totally and absolutely that, only until amoment before, it was as if they had never taken place. But now the events wereas clear in my mind as they were the day they happened.  

Shivering not with cold but withan undefinable dread, I turned to face Joe Cortez; ready to tell him about thattrip.  

He was staring at me with an oddintensity: His eyes were like tunnels, deep and dark: They absorbed my dismay.But they also made the images of that trip recede.  

Once the images had lost theirimpulse, all that was left in my mind was a trite, empty thought.  

I believed at that instant, in myusual assertive manner, that I couldn't tell anything to Joe Cortez, because atrue adventure always dictates its own course and the most memorable, excitingevents in my life had always been those whose course I had not interferedwith.  

"What do you want me to callyou? Joe Cortez or Carlos Castaneda?" I asked with nauseating femininejoviality.  

His copper-colored face crinkledup in a smile. "I'm your childhood companion. Give me a name. I call younibelunga."  

I couldn't come up with asuitable name. I asked him, "Is there any order to your names?"  

"Well," he mused,"Joe Cortez is a cook, a gardener, a handy-man; a solicitous andthoughtful man. Carlos Castaneda is a man from the academic world, but I don'tthink you have met him yet."  

He looked at me fixedly andsmiled: There was something childlike and intensely trusting about thatsmile.  

I decided to call him JoeCortez.  

We spent the night- in separaterooms- in a motel in Yuma, Arizona.  

After leaving Los Angeles, allthrough the long drive I had worried myself sick about the sleepingarrangements.  

I had at moments feared he wouldpounce on me before we got to the motel.

After all, he was a strong youngman, too self-confident and aggressive. I wouldn't have been so worried if hehad been American or European. But because he was Latin, I simply knew what hisassumptions were. Accepting his invitation to spend a few days with him meantthat I was willing to share his bed.  

His thoughtfulness andconsiderate behavior toward me throughout the long drive was a detail that fitperfectly with what I thought and expected of him: He was preparing theground.  

It was late when we got to themotel. He went to the manager's office to see about our rooms.  

I stayed in the car, imaginingscenario upon lurid scenario.  

I had been so absorbed with myfantasies, I failed to notice his return from the office.  

Hearing him dangle a set of keysbefore me, I jumped in my seat and dropped the brown paper sack I had beenholding, unconsciously clutched against my breast. It contained all mytoiletries, which we had bought on the way.

"I got you a room at theback of the motel," he said. "It's away from the highway."  

He pointed to the door a fewsteps away from us and added, "I'll sleep in this one, close to thestreet. I'm used to sleeping through any kind of noise." He chuckled tohimself. "These were the only two rooms they had left."  

Disappointed, I took the key fromhis hand.  

All my scenarios fell apart. Iwasn't going to have the opportunity to refuse him. Not that I really wanted todo so. Yet my very soul clamored for a victory, no matter how small.  

"I don't see why we have torent two rooms," I said with studied casualness.  

My hand was shaking as Iretrieved the toiletries on the floor and stuffed them into the papersack.  

What I had said next soundedincredible to me, yet I couldn't stop myself. "The traffic won't let yourest, and you need your sleep as much as I do."  

I didn't for a moment believethat anyone could sleep through the noise coming from the highway.  

Without looking at him, I got outof the car, and then I heard myself propose, "We could sleep in the sameroom- in two beds, that is."  

I stood there for a moment,numbed and appalled. Never before had I done such a thing, nor had I had such aschizoid reaction.  

I was saying things that I didn'tmean. Or did I mean them but didn't know what I felt?  

His mirth put an end to myconfusion. He laughed so hard people turned on the light in one of the roomsand yelled at us to shut up.  

"Stay in the same room andhave you take advantage of me in the middle of the night," he said in betweenwaves of hilarity. "Right after my shower.No way!"

I blushed so intensely my earswere burning. I wanted to die of shame.  

This was not one of myscenarios.  

I went back inside the car andslammed the door. "Take me to the Greyhound bus," I hissed at himwith suppressed wrath. "Why in the hell did I come with you? I should havemy head examined!"  

Still laughing, he opened thedoor and gently pulled me out. "Let's sleep not only in the same room butin the same bed."  

He looked at me sheepishly."Please, let me make love to you!" he pleaded as if he really meantit.  

Aghast, I tore myself loose fromhis hold and yelled, "Not in your fucking life!"  

"There," he said."This is such a fierce refusal that I dare not insist."  

He reached for my hand and kissedit. "You have refused me and put me in my place. No more problems. You'revindicated."  

I turned away from him, ready toweep.  

My chagrin was not due to hisunwillingness to spend the night with me- had he expected to do so, I trulywouldn't have known what to do- but to the fact that he knew me even betterthan I knew myself.  

I had refused to give credence towhat I thought was his way of flattering himself. He was able to see throughme. Suddenly, it frightened me.  

He moved closer and hugged me. Itwas a sweet, simple embrace.  

As had happened before, myturmoil vanished completely, as though it had never existed.  

I hugged him back and said yetthe most incredible thing, "This is the most exciting adventure of mylife."  

I immediately wanted to retractmy statement. The words that had escaped were not mine. I didn't even know whatI meant. This was not the most exciting adventure of my life. I had taken manyexciting trips. I had been around the world.

My irritation reached its peakwhen he kissed me goodnight, swiftly and softly, as one kisses a child, and Iliked it against my will. I had no will.

He pushed me down the corridortoward my room.  

Cursing myself, I sat down on mybed and wept in frustration, in anger and self-pity.  

Since as far back in life as Icould remember, I had always had my way. I was accustomed to it. To be confusedand not know what I wanted was a brand-new sensation for me and a mostunwelcome one.  

I slept restlessly with myclothes on until he banged on the door, early in the morning, to wake meup.  

We drove all day, meanderingalong out-of-the-way roads.  

As he had told me, Joe Cortez wasindeed a solicitous man. Throughout the long drive, he was the kindest, themost considerate and entertaining companion one could wish for. He pampered mewith food and songs and stories. He had an astonishingly deep yet clearbaritone voice.  

And he knew all my favoritesongs. Corny love songs from every South American country, all their nationalanthems, old ballads, and even nursery rhymes.

His stories made me laugh untilmy abdominal muscles hurt. As a storyteller, he kept me enraptured with everyturn of his tale.  

He seemed to be a born mimic. Hisuncanny imitation of every conceivable South American accent- including thedistinctive Portuguese of Brazil- was more than mimicry, it was magic.  

"We'd better climb down fromthe car's roof." Joe Cortez's voice broke into my reveries. "It getscold at night in the desert."  

"It's a tough environment,"I said, wishing we would get back into the van and drive off.  

Ill at ease, I watched himretrieve some bags from the car. He had bought all kinds of presents for thepeople we were going to visit.  

"Why did you park here inthe middle of nowhere?"  

"You ask the dumbestquestions, nibelunga," he replied. "I parked here because it is herewhere our car journey ends."  

"Have we arrived at ourmysterious destination that you can't talk about?" I asked in a sarcastictone.  

The only thing that had marredthe enchanting drive had been his refusal to tell me where exactly we weregoing.  

In a matter of milliseconds, Ibecame so angry with him that I was ready to punch him in the nose.  

The thought that my suddenirritability was simply the result of a long, exhausting day, brought me aneeded sense of relief.  

"I'm getting nasty now, butI don't mean to," I said in a jovial tone that sounded phony even tome.  

My voice was so strained itrevealed just how much it cost me to hold back my temper. It worried me that Icould get mad at him so easily and so quickly.

"You really don't know howto converse," he said with a big smile. "You only know how tocoerce."  

"Oh! I see, Joe Cortez hasleft. Are you going to start insulting me again, Carlos Castaneda?"  

He chortled gaily at my remark,which by then wasn't meant to be funny. "This place is not in the middleof nowhere," he said. The city of Arizpe is nearby."  

"And the U.S. border is tothe north," I recited. "And Chihuahua to the east. And Los Angeles issomewhere northwest of here."  

He shook his head disparaginglyand took the lead.  

Silently, we walked through thechaparral, which I could feel more than see, along a winding narrow trail.  

The path grew wider as weapproached a vast clearing fenced in by short mesquite trees.  

The silhouettes of two housescould be discerned in the darkness. The bigger of the two had lights inside.The small dark house stood some distance away.

We walked up to the large house.Pale moths fluttered in the light slanting through the windowpanes.  

"I have to warn you that thepeople you're going to meet are a bit strange," he said in a whisper."Don't say anything. Let me do the talking."  

"I always say whatever Iplease," I asserted. "And I don't like to be told how to behave.  

"I'm not a child. Besides,my social manners are impeccable. I can assure you that I won't embarrassyou."  

"Get off your high horse,goddamn it!" he hissed in a tightly controlled voice.  

"Don't treat me like I amyour wife, Carlos Castaneda," I yelled at the top of my voice, pronouncinghis last name the way I felt it ought to be pronounced: with a tilde on the n,which I knew he much disliked.  

But he didn't get angry: It made himlaugh as he so often did when I expected him to explode with wrath.  

He never does, I thought, andsighed despondently.  

He had the most extraordinaryequanimity. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle him or cause him to lose his temper.Even when he shouted, it somehow always sounded phony.  

Just as he was about to knock,the door opened.  

A thin man formed a black shadowin the rectangle of light. With an impatient gesture of his arm, he bade usin.  

We entered a plant-filledvestibule. Swiftly, as though afraid to show his face, the man moved ahead ofus and, without a word of greeting, opened an inner door with rattly glasspanes.  

We followed him along a darkcorridor and across an inside patio, where a young man sitting on a rush chairwas playing a guitar and singing in a soft, grief-stricken voice.  

He paused the instant he noticedus. He didn't return my greeting and resumed his playing as we turned a cornerand went down another equally dark corridor.

"Why is everyone soimpolite?" I whispered into Joe Cortez's ear. "Are you sure this isthe right house?"  

He chuckled softly. "I'vetold you, they are eccentric," he nurmured.  

"Are you sure you know thesepeople?" I insisted.  

"What kind of a question isthat?" he snapped in a quiet yet nenacing tone. "Of course I knowthem."  

We had reached a lighted doorway.His pupils gleamed. "Are we going to stay here overnight?" I askeduneasily.  

"I've no idea," hewhispered in my ear and then kissed my cheek. "And please, don't ask anymore questions. I'm trying my best to accomplish a nearly impossiblemaneuver."  

"What maneuver isthat?" I whispered back.  

A sudden realization made me feelanxious and uncomfortable but also excited. The word maneuver had been theclue.  

Seemingly aware of my innermostfeelings, he shifted the bags he was carrying into one arm and gently took myhand and kissed it- his touch sent pleasurable shivers throughout my body- andled me across the threshold.  

We entered a large, dimly lit,sparsely furnished living room.  

It was not what I expected aprovincial Mexican living room to look like. The walls and the low ceiling wereimmaculately white: There wasn't a picture or a wall decoration to mar thatwhiteness.  

Against the wall opposite thedoor stood a large couch.  

On it sat three elderly,elegantly dressed women. I couldn't quite see their faces, but in the dim lightthey looked peculiarly alike- without actually resembling one another- andvaguely familiar.  

I was so baffled by this I barelynoticed the two people sitting on the spacious armchairs nearby.  

In my eagerness to reach thethree women, I took an involuntary giant leap. I had failed to notice that theroom had a split-level brick floor. As I steadied myself, I noticed thebeautiful oriental rug and the woman sitting in one of the armchairs.  

"Delia Flores!" Iexclaimed. "My God! I can't believe this!"  

I touched her, for I needed tomake sure she was not a figment of my imagination.  

"What is going on?" Iasked instead of greeting her.  

At that same instant I realizedthat the women on the couch were the same women I had met the previous year atthe healer's house.  

I stood gaping, frozen, my minddazed with shock.  

A quick, faint smile twitched thecorners of their mouths as they turned toward the whitehaired old man sittingin the other armchair.  

"Mariano Aureliano." Myvoice was but a soft, shaky whisper.  

All the energy was gone fromme.  

I turned to face Joe Cortez andin that same feeble voice accused him of tricking me.  

I wanted to scream at him, insulthim, do him bodily harm, but I had no strength left in me, not even to lift myarm.  

I barely realized that, like me,he stood rooted to the floor, his face ashen with shock and bewilderment.  

Mariano Aureliano rose from hischair and moved toward me, arms extended to embrace me. "How happy I am tosee you again."  

His voice was soft and his eyesshone brightly with excitement and joy.  

He lifted me off the ground in abear's hug.  

My body was limp. I had nostrength- or desire- to reciprocate his warm embrace. I could not say aword.  

He put me down, and went over togreet Joe Cortez with that same effusive warmth.  

Delia Flores and her friends cameover to where I stood.  

One by one they embraced me andwhispered something in my ear.  

I felt comforted by theiraffectionate touches and by their soft voices, but I didn't understand a thingthey said. My mind wasn't there with me.

I could feel and hear but Icouldn't make sense of what I felt and heard.

Mariano Aureliano gazed at me andsaid in a clear voice that pierced the fog of my mind, "You haven't beentricked. I told you from the beginning that I would blow you to him."  

"So you're..." I shookmy head, unable to finish my sentence as it finally dawned on me that MarianoAureliano was the man Joe Cortez had told me so much about: Juan Matus, thesorcerer who had changed the course of his life.  

I opened my mouth to saysomething but shut it again.  

I had the sensation of being cutloose from my own body.  

My mind couldn't accommodate anyfurther astonishment; and then I saw Mr. Flores emerge from the shadows. Uponrealizing that he was the man who had let us in, I simply passed out.  

When I regained consciousness, Iwas lying on the couch.  

I felt extraordinarily wellrested and free of anxiety. Wondering how long I had been out, I sat up andlifted my arm to look at my wristwatch.  

"You have been out forexactly two minutes and twenty seconds," Mr. Flores announced, studyinghis watchless wrist.  

He was sitting on a leatherottoman near the couch. In a sitting position he appeared much taller than hedid standing up, for his legs were short and his torso long.  

"How terribly dramatic toswoon away," he said, coming to sit beside me on the couch:  

"I'm truly sorry we havefrightened you."  

His yellow-amber eyes, shiny withlaughter, belied the genuinely concerned tone of his voice. "And I doapologize for not greeting you at the door."  

His face reflected a bemusementbordering on fascination as he pulled my braid. "With your hair hiddenunder the hat and with that heavy leather jacket I thought you were aboy."  

I stood up and had to hold on tothe couch.  

I was still a bit dizzy.Uncertainly, I looked around me.  

The women were no longer in theroom, and neither was Joe Cortez.  

Mariano Aureliano was sitting inone of the armchairs, staring fixedly ahead of him. Perhaps he was asleep withhis eyes open.  

"When I first saw the two ofyou holding hands," Mr. Flores went on, "I was afraid that CharlieSpider had turned queer."  

He said the whole sentence inEnglish. He pronounced his words beautifully and precisely and with genuinerelish.  

"Charlie Spider?" Ilaughed at the name and at his formal English pronunciation. "Who ishe?"  

"Don't you know?" heasked, his eyes wide with genuine puzzlement.

"No, I don't. Should Iknow?"  

He scratched his head, perplexedby my denial, then asked, "With whom have you been holding hands?"  

"Carlos held my hand as westepped into this room."  

"There you are," Mr.Flores said, gazing at me with rapt approval, as if I had resolved aparticularly difficult riddle.  

Then seeing my still-mystifiedexpression he added, "Carlos Castaneda is not only Joe Cortez, but he'salso Charlie Spider."  

"Charlie Spider," Imumbled softly. "That's a very catchy name."  

Of all the three names, it wasthe one I liked best, no doubt because I was exceedingly fond of spiders. Theydidn't frighten me in the least, not even big, tropical spiders. The corners ofmy apartment were always spotted with spider webs. Whenever I cleaned, I couldnot bring myself to destroy those gauzy webs.

"Why does he call himselfCharlie Spider?" I asked curiously.

"Different names fordifferent situations." Mr. Flores recited the answer as if it were aslogan. "The one who should explain all this to you is MarianoAureliano."  

"Is Mr. Aureliano'sname alsoJuan Matus?"  

Mr. Flores nodded emphatically."It most certainly is," he said, with a broad, gleeful smile."He also has different names for different situations."  

"How about yourself, Mr.Flores? Do you also have different names?"

"Flores is my only name.Genaro Flores." His tone was flirtatious.

He leaned toward me and in aninsinuating whisper proposed, "You can call me Genarito."  

I shook my headinvoluntarily.  

There was something about himthat scared me more than Mariano Aureliano did.

On a rational level, I couldn'tdecide what it was that made me feel this way.

Outwardly, Mr. Flores seemed muchmore approachable than the other man. He was childlike, playful, and easygoing.And yet, I didn't feel at ease with him.

"The reason I only have onename," Mr. Flores broke into my reveries, "is that I am not anagual."  

"And what is anagual?"  

"Ah, that's a terriblydifficult thing to explain." He smiled disarmingly. "Only MarianoAureliano or IsidoreBaltazar can explain that."  

"Who isIsidoreBaltazar?"  

"IsidoreBaltazar is the newnagual."  

"Don't tell me any more,please," I said fretfully.  

Holding my hand to my forehead Isat down again on the couch. "You're confusing me, Mr. Flores, and I'mstill kind of weak."  

I looked at him pleadingly andasked, "Where is Carlos?"  

"Charlie Spider is spinningsome spiderish dream." Mr. Flores said the whole sentence in hisextravagantly pronounced English then chuckled contentedly as though he weresavoring a particularly clever joke.  

He glanced gleefully at MarianoAureliano- still staring fixedly at the wall- then back at me and back at hisfriend.  

He must have sensed my growingapprehension, for he shrugged helplessly, held up his hands in a resignedgesture, and said, "Carlos, also known as IsidoreBaltazar, went tovisit..."  

"He left?" My shriekmade Mariano Aureliano turn to look at me.

I was more distraught at beingleft alone with the two old men than I was about learning that Carlos Castanedawas known by yet another name, and that he was the new nagual, whatever thatmeant.  

Mariano Aureliano rose from hischair, bowed deeply, and, holding out his hand to help me up, said, "Whatcould possibly be more delightful and rewarding for two old men than to guardyou until you awoke from your dreams?"

His engaging smile and his old-fashionedcourtesy were irresistible.  

I relaxed instantly. "Ican't think of anything more delightful," I cheerfully agreed and let himlead me to a brightly lit dining room across the corridor, to an oval-shapedmahogany table at the far end of the room.  

Gallantly, he held out a chairfor me, waited until I was comfortably seated, then said that it was not toolate for supper and that he would go himself to the kitchen and bring mesomething delicious to eat.  

My offer to help him wasgraciously rejected.  

Mr. Flores, instead of walking tothe table, cartwheeled across the room, calculating the distance with suchprecision he landed a few inches away from the table.  

Grinning, he sat beside me. Hisface showed no trace of exertion: He wasn't even out of breath.  

"In spite of your denialthat you aren't an acrobat, I believe that you and your friends are part ofsome magic show," I said.  

Mr. Flores sprang from his chair,his face crinkling with mischief. "You're absolutely right. We are part ofsome magic show!" he exclaimed, reaching for one of the two earthenwarejugs standing on the long sideboard.  

He poured me a cup of hotchocolate. "I make a meal of it by eating a piece of cheese with it."He cut me a slice of Manchego cheese.  

Together they were superb.  

I wanted seconds, but he didn'toffer me any.  

I thought that a cup- and it hadonly been half full- was not enough. I had always been partial to chocolate andcould eat inordinate amounts of it without ill effects.  

I was certain that if Iconcentrated on my desire to have more of it, he would be obliged to pour meanother cup without my having to ask. I was able to do this as a child when Iwanted something badly enough.  

Greedily, I watched him removetwo extra cups and two saucers from the tall china closet.  

I noticed that between thecrystal, the china, and the silverware on the shelves stood an odd assortmentof prehispanic clay figurines and plastic prehistoric monsters.  

"This is the witches'house," Mr. Flores said in a conspiratorial tone, as if to explain theincongruity of the decor in the china closet.

"Mariano Aureliano'swives?" I asked daringly.  

He didn't answer but gestured forme to turn around. Mariano Aureliano was standing right behind me.  

"The same ones,"Mariano Aureliano said cheerfully, placing a porcelain tureen on the table."The same witches who made this delicious oxtail soup."  

With a silver ladle he served mea plateful and urged me to add to it a wedge of lime and a slice ofavocado.  

I did so, then devoured it all ina few gulps.  

I ate several platefuls, until Ifelt physically satisfied, almost stuffed.

We sat around the table for a longtime. The oxail soup had the most soothing effect on me.  

I was at ease. Something that wasusually very nasty in me had been turned off.

My whole being, body and spirit,was thankful that I didn't have to use up energy to defend myself.  

Nodding his head, as thoughsilently confirming each of my thoughts, Mariano Aureliano watched me withkeen, amused eyes.  

I was about to address him asJuan Matus, when he anticipated my intent and said, "I'm Juan Matus forIsidoreBaltazar.  

"For you, I am the nagualMariano Aureliano."  

Smiling, he leaned closer andwhispered in a confidential tone, "The man who drove you here is the newnagual, the nagualIsidoreBaltazar. That's the name you should use when you talkto him or about him.  

"You're not quite asleep butnot quite awake either," Mariano Aureliano went on explaining, "soyou'll be able to understand and remember everything we say to you."  

Seeing that I was about tointerrupt him, he added sternly, "And tonight, you're not going to askstupid questions."  

It wasn't so much his tone, but aforce, an edge to him that was chilling. It paralyzed my tongue; my head,however, of its own accord, made a nodding gesture of affirmation.  

"You have to test her,"Mr. Flores reminded his friend.  

A definite wicked gleam appearedin Mr. Flores' eyes as he added, "Or better yet, let me test hermyself."  

Mariano Aureliano paused, a long,deliberate moment charged with ominous possibilities, and regarded mecritically, as if my features would give him a clue to some importantsecret.  

Mesmerized by his keen, piercingeyes, I didn't so much as blink.  

He nodded thoughtfully, and Mr.Flores asked me in a deep, grave tone, "Are you in love withIsidoreBaltazar?"  

And I'll be damned if I didn'tsay yes in a mechanical, unanimated voice.

Mr. Flores moved closer, untilour heads almost touched, and in a whisper that shook with suppressed laughterasked, "Are you really madly, madly in love with him?"  

I said yes again, and both menburst into loud, elated guffaws.  

The sound of their laughter,bouncing around the room like ping-pong balls, finally broke my trance-likestate. I hooked onto the sound and pulled myself out of the spell.  

"What in the name of hell isthis," I shouted at the top of ny voice.

Startled, both men jumped out oftheir chairs.  

They looked at me, then at eachother, and burst out laughing again with ecstatic abandon.  

The more eloquent my insults, thegreater their mirth. There was something so infectious about their laughter, Icouldn't help but giggle, too.  

As soon as we had all calmeddown, Mariano Aureliano and Mr. Flores bombarded me with questions.  

They were particularly interestedin how and when I first met IsidoreBaltazar.

Every absurd little detailoverjoyed them.  

By the time I had gone over theevents for the fourth and fifth time, I had either improved and enlarged mystory with each telling, or I had remembered details I wouldn't have dreamed Icould remember.  

"IsidoreBaltazar saw throughyou and through the whole thing," Mariano Aureliano judged when I finallyfinished with my various accounts. "But he doesn't see well enoughyet.  

"He couldn't even conceivethat I had sent you to him."  

He regarded me wickedly and correctedhimself. "It wasn't really I who sent you to him. It was the spirit.  

"The spirit chose me to doits bidding, though, and I blew you to him when you were most powerful, in themidst of your dreaming-awake."  

He spoke lightly, almostlistlessly: Only his eyes conveyed the urgency of his knowledge. "Perhapsyour dreaming-awake power was the reason IsidoreBaltazar didn't realize who youwere, even though he was seeing; even though the spirit let him know the veryfirst time he set eyes on you.  

"A display of lights in thefog is the ultimate giveaway. How stupid of IsidoreBaltazar not to see theobvious."

He chuckled softly, and I noddedin agreement, without knowing what I was agreeing to.  

"That'll show you that to bea sorcerer is no big deal," he continued. "IsidoreBaltazar is asorcerer.  

"To be a man of knowledge issomething else. For that, sorcerers have to wait sometimes alifetime."  

"What's thedifference?" I asked.  

"A man of knowledge is aleader," he explained, his voice low, subtly mysterious:  

"Sorcerers need leaders tolead us into and through the unknown.  

"A leader is revealedthrough his actions.  

"Leaders have no price tagon their heads, meaning that there is no way to buy them or bribe them orcajole them or mystify them."  

He settled more comfortably inhis chair and went on to say that all the people in his group had made it apoint to study leaders throughout the ages in order to see if any of themfulfilled the requirements.  

"Have you foundany?"  

"Some," he admitted."Those we have found could have been naguals."  

He pressed his finger against mylips and added, "Naguals are, then, natural leaders; men of tremendousenergy who become sorcerers by adding one more track to their repertoire: theunknown.  

"If those sorcerers succeedin becoming men of knowledge, then there is practically no limit to what theycan do."  

"Can women--" He didn'tlet me finish.  

"Women, as you will learnsomeday, can do infinitely more complex things than that," he affirmed.  

"Did IsidoreBaltazar remindyou of someone you met before?" Mr. Flores interrupted.  

"Well," I beganexpansively, "I felt thoroughly at ease with him.  

"I felt as if I had knownhim all my life. He reminded me of someone perhaps in my childhood; a forgottenchildhood friend perhaps."  

"So you really don'tremember meeting him before?" Mr. Flores interjected.  

"You mean at Esperanza'shouse?" I asked, wondering whether I had seen him at the healer's placeand didn't recall it.  

He shook his headdisappointedly.  

Then, apparently no longerinterested in my response, he went on to ask if I had seen someone waving at uson our way to the house.  

"No," I said. "Ididn't seen anyone waving at us."  

"Think hard," heinsisted.  

I told the two men that afterYuma, instead of going east to Nogales on Highway 8- the most logical route-IsidoreBaltazar headed south into Mexico, then east through "El GranDesierto," then north again into the United States through Sonoyta, toAjo, Arizona, and back into Mexico to Caborca, where we had a most deliciouslunch of beef tongue in a green chili sauce.

"After getting into the carwith a full stomach, I hardly paid any attention to the road," I admitted."I know we passed through Santa Ana, and then we headed north again toCananea, and then south again. A veritable mess, if you ask me."  

"Can't you remember seeinganyone on the road?" Mr. Flores insisted. "Anyone waving atyou?"

I shut my eyes tightly in aneffort to visualize anyone waving at us, but my memory of the trip was one ofstories and songs and of physical exhaustion.

And then as I was about to openmy eyes, the image of a man flashed before me.

I told them that I vaguelyrecalled there had been a young man in the outskirts of one of those towns whoI thought was trying to catch a ride.  

"He might have waved atus," I said. "But I'm not sure."

Both men chuckled like childrentrying hard not to give away a secret.  

"IsidoreBaltazar wasn't toosure of finding us," Mariano Aureliano remarked gleefully. "That'swhy he followed this outlandish route.  

"He followed the sorcerers'path; the coyote trail."  

"Why wouldn't he be sure offinding you?" I interrupted.  

"He didn't know whether hewould find us until he saw the young man waving at him," Mariano Aurelianoexplained. "That young man is a sentry from the other world.  

"His waving was a sign itwas all right to continue. IsidoreBaltazar should have known then who youreally were, but he is very much like you; extremely cautious: And when he'snot cautious, he's extremely reckless."

He paused for a moment to let thewords sink in then added meaningfully, "Moving between those two points isthe surest way to miss the boat. Cautiousness blinds as surely asrecklessness."  

"I can't understand thelogic of all this," I murmured wearily.

Mariano Aureliano elucidated,"Whenever IsidoreBaltazar brings a guest, he has to heed the sentry's signalbefore he can continue on his journey."

"Once he brought a girl hewas in love with." Mr. Flores chuckled, closing his eyes as if transportedby his own memory of the girl:  

"A tall, dark-hairedgirl.Strong girl.Big feet. Nice face.  

"He drove all over BajaCalifornia, and the sentry never let him through."  

"Do you mean he brings hisgirlfriends?" I asked with morbid curiosity. "How many has hebrought?"  

"Quite a few," Mr.Flores said candidly:  

"He did that, of course,entirely on his own.  

"Your case isdifferent," he pointed out.  

"You're not his girlfriend:You were just coming back.  

"IsidoreBaltazar nearlycroaked when he found out he was so stupid to miss all the indications of thespirit. He was merely your chauffeur. We were waiting for you."  

What would have happened if thesentry hadn't been there?"  

What always occurs whenIsidoreBaltazar comes accompanied," Mariano Aureliano replied:  

"He wouldn't have found us,because it's not up to him to choose whom to bring into the sorcerers'world."  

His voice was enticingly soft ashe added, "Only those the spirit has pointed out may knock on our door,after they have been ushered into it by one of us."  

I was about to interrupt, thenremembering his admonition that I wasn't to ask stupid questions, I quicklypressed my hand against my mouth.  

Grinning appreciatively, MarianoAureliano went on to say that in my case Delia had brought me into their world."She's one of the two columns, so to speak, that make the door of ourdoor.  

"The other one is Clara.You'll meet her soon."  

There was genuine admiration inhis eyes and in his voice as he went on to say, "Delia crossed the borderjust to bring you home.  

"The border is an actualfact, but sorcerers use it symbolically.

"You were on the other sideand had to be brought here, to this side.

"Over on the other side isthe daily world, here on this side is the world of sorcerers.  

"Delia ushered you insmoothly; a real professional job. It was in impeccable maneuver that you willappreciate more and more as time passes."

Mariano Aureliano half-rose fromhis chair and reached for the porcelain compote on the sideboard.

He placed it in front of me."Help yourself. They're delicious."

Enraptured, I gazed at the pulpydry apricots on the hand-painted dish then tried one.  

They were more than wonderful. Iput three in my mouth.  

Mr. Flores winked at me. "Goahead," he urged me. "Put all of them in your mouth before we takethe plate away."  

I blushed and tried to apologizewith a mouth full of apricots.  

"Don't apologize!"Mariano Aureliano exclaimed. "Be yourself, but be yourself incontrol.  

"If you want to finish theapricots, then finish them, and that should be all there is to it.  

"What you should never do isfinish them, and then feel sorry you did."

"Well, I'll finishthem," I said. And that made them laugh.

"Do you know that you metIsidoreBaltazar last year?" Mr. Flores said.  

He was balancing so precariouslyon his tilted chair, I feared he would fall backwards and crash into the chinacloset.  

A wicked glint of delight dawnedin Mr. Flores' eyes as he began to hum a well-known ranchera song. Instead ofthe words that went with it, he made up a little ditty that told the story ofIsidoreBaltazar, a famous cook in Tucson: A cook who never lost his cool, noteven when he was accused of putting dead cockroaches in the food.  

"Oh!" I exclaimed."The cook! The cook in the coffee shop was IsidoreBaltazar! But that can'tbe true," I mumbled. "I don't think he would..." I stoppedmyself in midsentence.  

I kept staring at MarianoAureliano, hoping to discover something in his face, in that aquiline nose, inthose piercing eyes.  

I shook involuntarily, as if Iwere suddenly chilled. There was something savage in his cold eyes.  

"Yes?" he prompted me."You don't think he would...?" he urged me with a movement of hishead to finish my sentence.  

I was going to say, inanely, thatI didn't think IsidoreBaltazar could lie to me so despicably. I couldn't quitebring myself to say it, though.  

Mariano Aureliano's eyes becameeven harder, but I was too upset; too sorry for myself to feel frightened.  

"So, I was tricked afterall," I finally blurted out, glowering at him. "IsidoreBaltazar knewall along who I was. It's all a game."

"It's all a game,"Mariano Aureliano readily agreed. "A marvelous game, though. The only gameworth playing."

He paused as if to give me timeto complain some more.  

But before I had a chance to doso, he reminded me of the wig he had pulled over my hair.  

"If you didn't recognizeIsidoreBaltazar- who wasn't disguised- what makes you think that he recognizedyou in your poodle outfit?"  

Mariano Aureliano kept watchingme. His eyes had lost their hardness: Now they were sad, weary.  

"You weren't tricked. Youweren't even enticed. Not that I wouldn't do so if I deemed it necessary,"he noted in a light, soft tone:  

"I told you what was whatfrom the beginning.  

"You have witnessedstupendous events; still you haven't noticed them.  

"As most people do, youassociate sorcery with bizarre behavior, rituals, drugs,incantations."  

He leaned closer and lowered hisvoice to a mere whisper, then added that true sorcery was a most subtle andexquisite manipulation of perception.  

"True sorcery," Mr.Flores interjected, "does not allow for human interference."  

"But Mr. Aureliano claimsthat he blew me to IsidoreBaltazar," I pointed out with immatureimpertinence. "Isn't that interfering?"  

"I'm a nagual," MarianoAureliano said simply. "I'm the nagual Mariano Aureliano, and the factthat I am the nagual enables me to manipulate perception."  

I had paid close attention to hiswords, but I didn't have the vaguest idea what he meant by manipulatingperception. Out of sheer nervousness, I reached for the last dry apricot on theplate.  

"You're going to getsick," Mr. Flores said. "You're so tiny, and you're such a super painin the... eye."  

Mariano Aureliano came to standbehind me, then pressed my back in such a way it made me cough up the lastapricot I had had in my mouth.