After my return from the witches'house I never needed any more coaxing or encouragement.  

The women sorcerers had succeededin giving me a strange coherence; a sort of emotional stability I never hadbefore.  

It wasn't that I was suddenly achanged person, but rather there was a clear purpose to my existence. My fatewas delineated for me.  

I had to struggle to free myenergy.  

And that was that. Simplicityitself.

But I didn't remember, clearly oreven vaguely, all that had transpired in the three months I spent at theirhouse.  

The task of remembering it tookme years; a task into which I plunged with all my might and determination.  

The nagualIsidoreBaltazar,nevertheless, warned me about the fallaciousness of clearcut goals andemotionally charged realizations.  

He said that they were worthlessbecause the real arena of a sorcerer is the day-to-day life and in this arenasuperficial rationales do not withstand pressure.  

The women sorcerers had said moreor less the same but in a more harmonious way.

They explained that since womenare used to being manipulated, they agreed easily. But a woman's agreements aresimply empty adaptations to pressure.  

But if it is possible to convincethat women of the need to change her ways, then half the battle is won.  

Even if they don't intellectuallyagree, their emotional realization is infinitely more durable than that ofmen.  

I had the two opinions to weigh.I thought that both were right. From time to time, all my sorcery rationalescrumbled under the pressures of the everyday world, but my original commitmentto the sorcerers' world was never in need of revision.  

Little by little I began toacquire enough energy to dream.  

This meant that I finallyunderstood what the women had told me: IsidoreBaltazar was the new nagual; andhe was no longer a man.  

This realization also gave me enoughenergy to return periodically to the witches' house.  

That place, known as the witches'house, belonged to all the sorcerers of the nagual Mariano Aureliano's group. Abig and massive house from the outside, it was indistinguishable from otherhouses in the area; hardly noticeable in spite of the exuberantly bloomingbougainvillea hanging over the wall that encircled the grounds.  

What made people pass the housewithout noticing it, the sorcerers said, was the tenuous fog that covered it,thin as a veil, visible to the eye, but unnoticeable to the mind.  

Once inside the house, however,one was acutely and inescapably aware of having stepped into another world. Thethree patios, shaded by fruit trees, gave a dreamlike light to the darkcorridors and the many rooms that opened on these corridors. What was mostarresting about the house were the brick and tile floors which were laid out inthe most intricate designs.  

The witches' house was not a warmplace, yet it was friendly. It was not a home by any stretch of theimagination, for there was something crushing about its impersonality; itsrelentless austerity. It was the place where the old nagual Mariano Aurelianoand his sorcerers conceived their dreams and realized their purpose.  

Since the concern of thosesorcerers had nothing to do with the daily world, their house reflected theirotherworldly preoccupations: Their house was the true gauge of theirindividuality; not as persons, but as sorcerers.  

At the witches' house, Iinteracted with all the sorcerers of the nagual Mariano Aureliano's party.  

They didn't teach me sorcery oreven dreaming. According to them, there was nothing to teach.  

They said that my task was toremember everything that had transpired between all of them and me during thoseinitial times that we were together. In particular, I was to remembereverything that Zuleica and Florinda did or said to me- but Zuleica had nevertalked to me.  

Whenever I tried to ask any ofthem for help, they outright refused to have anything to do with me. They allargued that, without the necessary energy on my part, all they would do wouldbe to repeat themselves; and that they didn't have time for that.  

At first, I found their refusalungenerous and unfair. After a while, however, I gave up every attempt to probethem, and I simply enjoyed their presence and their company.  

I realized that they were, ofcourse, totally right in refusing to play our favorite intellectual game; thatof pretending to be interested by asking so-called soul-searching questionswhich usually have no meaning to us whatsoever.

And the reason they have nomeaning to us is that we don't have the energy to do anything about the answerwe might hear, except to agree or disagree with it.  

Via our daily interaction, however,I realized scores of things about their world.

The women dreamers and stalkersembodied two modes of behavior among women, as different as they could be.  

Initially, I wondered whether thegroup that was described to me as the dreamers- Nelida, Hermelinda, and Clara-were the actual stalkers. For as far as I could ascertain, my interaction withthem was on a strictly everyday, worldly level.

Only later did I fully realizethat their mere presence elicited- without even any hint of it- a new modalityof behavior on my part. That is, I felt no need to reassert myself with them.There were no doubts, there were no questions on my part whenever I was withthem.  

They had the singular ability tomake me see- without ever having to state it verbally- the absurdity of myexistence. And yet I felt no need to defend myself.  

Perhaps it was this lack offorcefulness, of directness, that made me acquiesce, accept them without anyresistance.  

It wasn't long before I realizedthat the women dreamers, by interacting with me on a worldly level, were givingme the necessary model to rechannel my energies.  

They wanted me to change themanner in which I focused on mundane matters such as cooking, cleaning,laundering, staying in school, or earning a living.  

These were to be done, they toldme, under different auspices: They were not to be mundane chores but artfulendeavors; one as important as the other.

Above all, it was theirinteraction with each other and with the women stalkers that made me aware ofhow special they were.  

In their humanness; theirordinariness, they were devoid of ordinary human failings.  

Their total awareness coexistedeasily with their individual characteristics; be it shorttemperedness,moodiness, rude forcefulness, madness, or cloying sweetness.  

In the presence and company ofany of those sorceresses, I experienced the most peculiar feeling that I was ona perpetual holiday. But that was but a mirage.

They were on a perpetual warpath,and the enemy was the idea of the self.  

At the witches' house, I also metVicente and Silvio Manuel, the other two sorcerers in the nagual MarianoAureliano's group.  

Vicente was obviously of Spanishdescent. I learned that his parents had come from Catalonia. He was a lean,aristocratic-looking man with deceptively frail-looking hands and feet. Heshuffled around in slippers and preferred pajama tops, which hung open over hiskhaki pants, to shires. His cheeks were rosy, but otherwise he was pale. Hisbeautifully cared for goatee added a touch of distinction to his otherwiseabsentminded demeanor.

Not only did he look like ascholar, but he was one. The books in the room I slept in were his; or rather,it was he who collected them, who read them, who cared for them. What made hiserudition [* erudition- profound scholarly knowledge] so appealing- there wasnothing he didn't know about- was that he conducted himself as though he wasalways the learner. I felt sure that this could seldom be the case, for it wasobvious that he knew more than the others.

It was his generous spirit thatmade him give his knowledge away with a magnificent naturalness and withoutever shaming anyone for knowing less.  

Then there was Silvio Manuel. Hewas of medium height, corpulent, beardless, and brown skinned. A mysterious,sinister-looking Indian, he was the perfect image of what I expected anevil-looking brujo to look like. His apparent moodiness frightened me, and hissparse answers revealed what I believed to be a violent nature.  

Only upon knowing him did I realizehow much he enjoyed cultivating this image. He was the most open, and for me,delightful, of all the sorcerers.  

Secrets and gossip were hispassion. Whether they were truths or falsehoods didn't matter to him. It washis recounting of them that was priceless to me, and to everyone else, for thatmatter.  

He also had an inexhaustiblesupply of jokes, most of them downright dirty. He was the only one who enjoyedwatching TV and thus was always up to date on world news. He would report it tothe others with gross exaggerations, salting it with a great deal ofmalice.  

Silvio Manuel was a magnificentdancer. His expertise in the various indigenous, sacred dances was legendary.He moved with rapturous abandon and would often ask me to dance with him. Whetherit was a Venezuelan joropo, a cumbia, a samba, a tango, the twist, rock androll, or a cheek-to-cheek bolero, he knew them all.  

I also interacted with John, theIndian I had been introduced to by the nagual Mariano Aureliano in Tucson,Arizona. His round, easygoing, jovial appearance was but a facade. He was themost unapproachable of all the sorcerers. He drove around in his pickup truckon errands for everyone else. He also fixed whatever needed to be mended in andaround the house.  

If I didn't bother him withquestions or comments and kept silent, he would take me with him on his errandsand show me how things were fixed. From him I learned how to change washers andadjust a leaking faucet or toilet tank; how to fix an iron, a light switch; howto change the oil and spark plugs in my car. Under his guidance, the proper useof a hammer, a screwdriver, a saw, and an electric drill became quite naturalto me.  

The only thing none of them didfor me was answer my questions and probes about their world. Whenever I triedto engage them, they referred me to the nagualIsidoreBaltazar. Their standardrebuff was to say, "He's the new nagual. It's his duty to deal with you.We are merely your aunties and uncles."  

At the beginning, thenagualIsidoreBaltazar was more than a mystery to me. Where he actually livedwas not clear to me. Oblivious to schedules and routines, he appeared at anddisappeared from the studio at all hours. Day and night were all the same tohim. He slept when he was tired- hardly ever- and ate when he was hungry-almost always.  

Between his frantic comings andgoings, he worked with a concentration that was astounding. His capacity tostretch or compress time was incomprehensible to me. I was certain that I spenthours, even entire days, with him, when in reality it could have been onlymoments, snatched here and there either during the day or the night fromsomething else he did- whatever it might have been.  

I had always considered myself anenergetic person. However, I could not keep up with him. He was always inmotion- or so it appeared; agile and active; ever ready to undertake someproject. His vigor was simply incredible.

It was much later that I fullyunderstood that the source of IsidoreBaltazar's boundless energy was his lackof concern with himself.  

It was his unwavering support;his imperceptible yet masterful machinations that helped me stay on the righttrack. There was a lightheartedness in him, a pure delight in his subtle yetforceful influence, that made me change without my noticing that I was beingled along a new path; a path on which I no longer had to play games or neededto pretend or use my womanly wiles to get my way.  

What made his guidance sotremendously compelling was that he had no ulterior motive. He wasn't in theleast possessive, and his guidance wasn't adulterated with promises orsentimentality.  

He didn't push me in anyparticular direction. That is, he didn't advise me on what courses I shouldtake or what books I should read. That was left entirely up to me.  

There was only one condition heinsisted upon: I was to work on no particular goal other than the edifying andpleasurable process of thinking. A startling proposition! I had neverconsidered thinking in those terms or in any others. Although I didn't dislikegoing to school, I had certainly never thought of schoolwork as particularlypleasurable. It was simply something I had to do, usually in a hurry and withthe least possible effort.  

I couldn't help but agree withwhat Florinda and her cohorts had so bluntly pointed out to me the first time Imet them: I went to school not to pursue knowledge but to have a good time.That I had good grades was more a matter of luck and loquaciousness thanstudiousness. I had a fairly good memory, I knew how to talk, and I knew how toconvince others.  

Once I got past my initialembarrassment over having to admit and to accept the fact that my intellectualpretensions were a sham and that I didn't know how to think except in the mostshallow manner, I felt relieved. I was ready to put myself under the sorcerers'tutelage, and to follow IsidoreBaltazar's study plan.  

To my great disappointment, hedidn't have one. All he did was insist that I stop studying and readingoutdoors. He believed that the thinking process was a private, almost secret

rite and could not possibly occuroutdoors in public view. He compared the process of thinking with leaveneddough. It can only rise inside a room.  

"The best way to understandanything, of course, is in bed," he said to me once. He stretched out onhis bed, propped his head against several pillows, and crossed the right legover the left, resting the ankle on the raised knee of the left leg.  

I didn't think much of thisabsurd reading position, yet I practiced it whenever I was by myself. With abook propped on my chest, I would fall into the most profound sleep. Keenlysensitive to my insomniac tendencies, I was more pleased with sleep than withknowledge.  

Sometimes, however, just prior tothat moment of losing consciousness, I would feel as if hands were coilingaround my head, pressing ever so lightly against my temples.  

My eyes would automatically scanthe open page before I was even conscious of it and lift entire paragraphs offthe paper. The words would dance before my eyes until clusters of meaningexploded in my brain like revelations.  

Eager to uncover this newpossibility opening up before me, I pushed on, as if driven by some relentlesstaskmaster.  

There were times, however, whenthis cultivation of reason and method exhausted me, physically as well asmentally. At those times, I asked IsidoreBaltazar about intuitive knowledge;about that sudden flash of insight, of understanding, that sorcerers aresupposed to cultivate above all else.  

He always said to me at thosetimes that to know something only intuitively is meaningless. Flashes ofinsight need to be translated into some coherent thought, otherwise they arepurposeless. He compared flashes of insight to sightings of inexplicablephenomena. Both wane as swiftly as they come. If they are not constantlyreinforced, doubt and forgetfulness will ensue, for the mind has beenconditioned to be practical and accept only that which is verifiable andquantifiable.  

He explained that sorcerers aremen of knowledge rather than men of reason. As such, they are a step ahead ofWestern intellectual men who assume that reality- which is often equated withtruth- is knowable through reason. A sorcerer claims that all that is knowablethrough reason is our thought processes; but that it is only by understandingour total being, at its most sophisticated and intricate level, that can weeventually erase the boundaries with which reason defines reality.  

IsidoreBaltazar explained to methat sorcerers cultivate the totality of their being. That is, sorcerers don'tnecessarily make a distinction between our rational and our intuitive sides.They use both to reach the realm of awareness they call silent knowledge, whichlies beyond language, beyond thought.  

Again and again, IsidoreBaltazarstressed that for one to silence one's rational side one first has tounderstand his or her thought process at its most sophisticated and intricatelevel. He believed that philosophy, beginning with classical Greek thought, providedthe best way of illuminating this thought process. He never tired of repeatingthat, whether we are scholars or laymen, we are nonetheless members andinheritors of our Western intellectual tradition. And that means thatregardless of our level of education and sophistication, we are captives ofthat intellectual tradition and the way it interprets what reality is.  

Only superficially,IsidoreBaltazar claimed, are we willing to accept that what we call reality isa culturally determined construct.  

And what we need is to accept atthe deepest level possible that culture is the product of a long, cooperative,highly selective, highly developed, and last but not least, highly coerciveprocess that culminates in an agreement that shields us from other possibilities.  

Sorcerers actively strive tounmask the fact that reality is dictated and upheld by our reason; that ideasand thoughts stemming from reason become regimes of knowledge that ordain howwe see and act in the world; and that incredible pressure is put on all of usto make certain ideologies acceptable to ourselves.  

He stressed that sorcerers areinterested in perceiving the world in ways outside of what is culturallydetermined.  

What is culturally determined isthat our personal experiences, plus a shared social agreement on what oursenses are capable of perceiving, dictate what we perceive.  

Anything out of this sensoriallyagreed-upon perceptual realm is automatically encapsulated and disregarded bythe rational mind.  

In this manner, the frail blanketof human assumptions is never damaged.  

Sorcerers teach that perceptiontakes place in a place outside the sensorial realm. Sorcerers know thatsomething more vast exists than what we have agreed our senses can perceive.Perception takes place at a point outside the body, outside the senses, theysay.  

But it isn't enough for onemerely to believe this premise: It is not simply a matter of reading or hearingabout it from someone else.  

In order for one to embody it,one has to experience it.  

IsidoreBaltazar said thatsorcerers continually and actively strive to break that frail blanket of humanassumptions.  

However, sorcerers don't plungeinto the darkness blindly. They are prepared. They know that whenever they leapinto the unknown, they need to have a well-developed rational

side. Only then will they be ableto explain and make sense of whatever they might bring forth from theirjourneys into the unknown.  

He added that I wasn't tounderstand sorcery through reading the works of philosophers. Rather, I was tosee that both philosophy and sorcery are highly sophisticated forms of abstractknowledge. Both for sorcerer and philosopher, the truth of ourBeing-in-theworld does not remain unthought. A sorcerer, however, goes a step further.He acts upon his findings which are already by definition outside ourculturally accepted possibilities.  

IsidoreBaltazar believed thatphilosophers are intellectual sorcerers. However, their probings and theirpursuits always remain mental endeavors. Philosophers cannot act upon the worldthey understand and explain so well except in the culturally agreed-uponmanner. Philosophers add to an already existing body of knowledge. Theyinterpret and reinterpret existing philosophical texts. New thoughts and ideasresulting from this intense studying don't change them, except perhaps in apsychological sense. They might become kinder, more understanding people- or,perhaps, the opposite.  

However, nothing of whatphilosophers do philosophically will change their sensorial perception of theworld, for they work from within the social order.  

Philosophers uphold the socialorder even if intellectually they don't agree with it. Philosophers aresorcerers manque. [* manque- unfulfilled or frustrated in realizing anambition]  

Sorcerers also build upon anexisting body of knowledge.  

However, they don't build uponthis knowledge by accepting what has already been established and proven byother sorcerers.  

Sorcerers have to prove tothemselves anew that that which already stands as accepted does indeed exist,does indeed yield to perceiving.  

To accomplish this monumentaltask, sorcerers need an extraordinary amount of energy which they obtain bydetaching themselves from the social order without retreating from theworld.  

Sorcerers break the agreementthat has defined reality, without breaking up in the process themselves.  

Chapter 15  

Uncertainty took hold of meshortly after we crossed the border into Mexico at Mexicali. My justificationfor going to Mexico with IsidoreBaltazar, which had seemed so brilliant to mebefore, now seemed only a shady excuse for forcing him to take me along.  

I doubted now that I would beable to read sociological theory at the witches' house as I said I would.  

I knew that I would do thereexactly what I did on all previous occcasions: sleep a great deal, dream weirddreams, and try desperately to figure out what the people in the sorcerers'world wanted me to do.  

"Any regrets?"IsidoreBaltazar's voice made me jump. He was loooking at me sideways and hadprobably been watching me for a while.  

"Of course not," Ihastened to assure him, wondering whether he was referring to my generalfeeling or to my quietness.  

I stammered some inanities aboutthe heat, then turned to look out the window.

I didn't speak anymore, mainlybecause I was scared and morose. I could feel anxiety crawling on my skin likea swarm of ants.  

IsidoreBaltazar, on the otherhand, warmed up to his ebullient best. He was elated. He sang and told me inanejokes. He recited poetry in English, Spanish, and Portuguese. Even tidbits ofspicy gossip about people we both knew at UCLA failed to dispel my gloom. ThatI wasn't a responsive audience didn't mean a thing to him.  

Even my yelling at him to leave mealone didn't dampen his high spirits.  

"If people were watching us,they would believe that we've been married for years," he commented inbetween fits of laughter.  

If sorcerers were watching us, Ithought dejectedly, they would know that something is wrong. They would knowthat IsidoreBaltazar and I are not equals.

I am factual and final about myactions and decisions.  

For him actions and decisions arefluid, whatever their outcome, and their finality is measured in that heassumes full responsibility for them, regardless of how trivial or howsignificant they are.  

We drove, straight south. Wedidn't meander, as we usually did in order to get to the witches' house. Whenwe left Guaymas- never before had we been that far south on our way to the witches'house- I asked him, "Where are you taking me?"

He casually responded, "Weare taking the long way. Don't worry."

That was the same answer he gaveme when I asked again, during our dinner in Navojoa.  

We left Navojoa behind and drovesouth, heading toward Mazatlan. I was beside myself with worry.  

Around midnight, IsidoreBaltazarveered off the main highway and turned into a narrow dirt road. The van swayedand rattled as he drove over potholes and stones. Behind us the main highwaywas visible only for an instant in the scant flicker of the taillights, then itdisappeared altogether, swallowed by the bushes that fringed the road.  

After an excruciatingly longride, we came to an abrupt halt, and he switched off the headlights.  

"Where are we?" Iasked, looking all around me.  

For a moment I saw nothing. Then,as my eyes got accustomed to the darkness, I saw tiny white specks not too farahead of us. Tiny stars that appeared to have fallen from the sky.

The exuberant fragrance of thejasmine bushes climbing up the roof and tumbling down over the ramada had beenso entirely blocked out of my mind that, when I suddenly recognized it, I feltas though I had inhaled that perfumed air before only in a dream.  

I began to giggle. It all gave mean almost childlike sense of wonder and delight. We were at Esperanza'shouse.  

"It was here I first camewith Delia Flores," I mumbled to myself.

Then in one instant I was nearlychoking with anxiety, and reached for IsidoreBaltazar's hand and asked,"But how can this be possible?"

"What?" he asked in abewildered tone.  

He was agitated and ruffled. Hishand which usually was always warm was icy cold.  

"This house was in theoutskirts of Ciudad Obregon, more than a hundred miles north," I yelled."I drove here myself. And I never left the paved road."  

I looked all around me in thedarkness, and I recalled that I had also driven from that house to Tucson, andI had never been in or near Navojoa in my life.

IsidoreBaltazar was silent for afew minutes. He seemed preoccupied; searching in his mind for an answer.  

I knew there was none that wouldhave pleased me.  

Shrugging, he turned to faceme.  

There was a force, an edge tohim- much like there was to the nagual Mariano Aureliano- as he said that tohim there was no doubt that I had been dreaming-awake when, together withDelia, I left Hermosillo for the healer's house. "I suggest that you letit go at that," he admonished:  

"I know from personalexperience how the mind can go in circles trying to arrange theunarrangeable."  

I was about to protest when hecut me off, and pointed to the light moving toward us. He smiled inanticipation, as though he knew exactly to whom that enormous, swaying shadowon the ground belonged.  

"It's the caretaker," Imurmured in astonishment, as he came to stand in front of us.  

Impulsively, I put my arms aroundhis neck and kissed him on both cheeks. "I never expected to see youhere," I muttered.  

He smiled sheepishly but didn'ttalk to me.  

He embraced IsidoreBaltazar,patting him repeatedly on the back the way Latin men are wont to do whengreeting each other, then mumbled something to him.  

Hard as I tried to listen, Icouldn't understand a single word.  

The caretaker led us to thehouse.  

There was something forbiddingabout the massive front door. It was closed.

So were the barred windows. Nolight, no sound escaped the thick walls.

We circled the house to thebackyard enclosed by a high fence; to the door that led directly to a squareroom.  

I felt reassured upon recognizingthe four doors. It was the same room I had been taken to by Delia Flores.  

It was as sparsely furnished as Iremembered it: a narrow bed, a table, and several chairs.  

The caretaker placed the oil lampon the table and then urged me to sit down.

Turning to IsidoreBaltazar, hedraped an arm around his shoulders and walked with him out into the darkcorridor.  

The suddenness of their departureleft me stunned.  

Before I fully recovered from mysurprise and my indecision as to whether I should follow them, the caretakerreappeared.  

He handed me a blanket, a pillow,a flashlight, and a chamber pot.  

"I would rather use theouthouse," I said primly.  

The caretaker shrugged hisshoulders, then pushed the chamber pot under the bed.  

"Just in case you have to goin the middle of the night."

His eyes glinted with emphaticglee as he told me that Esperanza kept a big, black watchdog outside. "Hedoesn't take kindly to strangers wandering across the yard at night."  

As if on cue, I heard a loudbarking.  

"I'm not a stranger," Isaid casually, trying to ignore the ominous note in the beast's barking."I've been here before. I know the dog."  

The caretaker lifted his brows insurprise, then asked, "Does the dog know you?"  

I glared at him.  

He sighed, and reaching for theoil lamp on the table, he turned toward the door.  

"Don't take away thelight," I said, stepping quickly in front of him to block his way.  

I tried to smile, but my lipsstuck to my teeth.  

"Where is everybody?" Ifinally managed to ask. "Where are Esperanza and Florinda?"  

"At the moment, I'm the onlyperson who's here," he said.  

"Where isIsidoreBaltazar?" I asked, panic-stricken. "He promised to take me tothe witches' house. I've to work on my paper."  

My thoughts; my words were alljumbled and confused as I talked about my reasons for accompanyingIsidoreBaltazar to Mexico.  

I was close to tears as I toldthe caretaker how important it was for me to finish my work.  

He patted my back mostreassuringly and made soothing noises, as if he were talking to a child.  

"IsidoreBaltazar is asleep.You know how he is. The instant his head hits the pillow, he's gone out of theworld."  

He smiled faintly and added,"I'll leave my door open in case you need me. Just call me if you have anightmare or something, and I'll come right away."  

Before I had a chance to tell himthat I hadn't had one since the last time I was in Sonora, the caretakerdisappeared down the dark corridor.  

The oil lamp on the table beganto sputter, and moments later it went out.

It was pitch dark.  

I lay down fully clothed andclosed my eyes.  

All was silent except for a soft,raspy breathing coming from far away. Conscious of that breathing sound and thehardness and narrowness of my bed, I soon gave up the effort to sleep.  

Flashlight in hand, I crept downthe corridor on noiseless feet, hoping to find IsidoreBaltazar or thecaretaker.  

Softly, I rapped on door afterdoor.  

No one answered. No sound camefrom any of the rooms. An odd, almost oppressive silence had settled over thehouse. Even the rustlings and chirpings outside had ceased. As I suspected, Ihad been left alone in the house.  

Rather than worry about it, Idecided to look into the rooms.  

They were bedrooms; eight of themof the same size and disposition; rather small, perfectly square, and furnishedonly with a bed and a night table.  

The walls and the two windows inall of them were painted white, and the tile floors were of an intricatedesign.  

I opened the sliding doors of theclosets by gently pushing their bottom left corners with my foot. I knew,without knowing how I knew, that a tap or gentle kick on that spot released amechanism that opened the doors.  

I moved the folded blanketsstacked up on the floor in one of the closets and got to a small secret door. Ireleased the concealed dead bolt, disguised as a wall light socket.  

Since I was beyond beingsurprised, I accepted my knowledge of the trap doors; a knowledge that was, ofcourse, inadmissible to my conscious mind.

I opened the small, secret door,crawled through the tiny opening, and found myself in the closet of the nextroom. With no great astonishment- since I already knew it- I discovered that bysquatting through these secret openings I could go from one to another of theseven rooms.  

I swore under my breath as myflashlight went out.  

Hoping to revive the batteries, Itook them out and screwed them back in again.

It was no use: They weredead.  

The darkness was so intense inthese rooms that I couldn't see my own hands. Afraid of hitting myself againsta door or a wall, I slowly felt my way into the corridor.  

The effort was so great that Iwas gasping and shaking as I pulled myself upright and leaned against thewall.  

I stood in the corridor for along time, wondering in which direction to go to find my own room.  

From the distance came fragmentsof voices.  

I couldn't tell whether the soundcame from inside the house or from the outside.

I followed the sound. It led meto the patio.  

I vividly recalled that green,almost tropical patio past the stone archway, with its ferns and thick foliage,its fragrance of orange blossoms, and honeysuckle vines.  

I hadn't taken but a few stepswhen I saw the enormous silhouette of a dog shadowed against the wall.  

The beast growled. Its blazingeyes sent a chill running up my spine.  

Instead of giving in to my fear,or perhaps because of it, I felt the strangest thing happen.  

It was as if I had always beenfolded like a Japanese fan or like a folded cutout figurine.  

Suddenly, I unfolded. Thephysical sensation was almost painful.  

The dog watched me, confused. Itbegan to whine like a puppy. It flapped its ears and coiled on the ground.  

I stood there glued to thespot.  

I wasn't afraid: I simplycouldn't move.  

Then, as if it were the mostnatural thing in the world, I folded back, turned around, and left. This time Ihad no trouble finding my room.  

I awoke with a headache and thatillusion of not having slept at all, which, as an insomniac, I knew sowell.  

The muscles of my body weredisconnected.  

I groaned out loud as I heard adoor open and light fell over my face.  

Feebly, I tried to turn on myother side without falling off the narrow bed.

"Good morning!"Esperanza exclaimed, stepping into the room in a sweep of skirts andpetticoats. "Actually, good afternoon," she corrected herself,pointing at the sun through the open door.

There as a wonderful gaiety inher, a delightful power in her voice when she told me that it was she who hadthought of retrieving my books and papers from the van before IsidoroBaltazarleft with the old nagual.  

Abruptly, I sat up. I was fullyawake.  

"Why didn't the nagualMariano Aureliano come to say hello to me? Why didn't IsidoreBaltazar tell mehe was leaving?" I blurted out.  

I mentioned to her that now Iwould never be able to finish my paper and enter graduate school.  

Esperanza regarded me with acurious expression, and said that if writing my paper was such a mercenary actI would never be able to bring it through.

Before I had a chance to tell herthat personally I didn't care if never entered graduate school, she added,"You don't do your paper to get into graduate school.  

"You do it because you lovedoing it; because there's nothing else at the moment you would ratherdo."  

"There is plenty I wouldrather do."  

"Like what?" shechallenged me.  

I thought for a moment butcouldn't come up with anything specific.

I had to admit, if only tomyself, that I had never enjoyed working on a paper as much as I did on thisone.  

For once, I had started with thereading and research at the beginning of the term instead of waiting, as Iusually did, until a few days before the paper was due.  

It was the knowledge that it wasmy ticket into graduate school that had spoiled my enjoyment.  

Esperanza, as if again privy tomy thoughts, said that I should forget about graduate school and only think ofwriting a good paper.  

"Once you're part of thesorcerers' world and begin to grasp the nature of dreams, you are on your wayto understanding what sorcery is all about; and that understanding freesyou."  

I looked at her, puzzled. Icouldn't figure out what she was trying to tell me.  

"It frees you from wantinganything." Esperanza enunciated the sentence very carefully, as if I weredeaf.  

She regarded me thoughtfully thenadded, "Greed is your middle name, and yet you don't need or wantanything..."  

Her voice trailed off as shebegan to arrange my books, papers, and stacks of index cards on the table.  

Her face was radiant as sheturned to look at me.  

In her hands, she held severalpencils. "I sharpened them for you with a razor blade," she said."I'll sharpen them for you whenever they get dull."  

She placed the pencils beside mylegal-sized writing pad and then flung her arms wide, as if to encompass thewhole room. "This is a wonderful place for you to work. No one will botheryou here."  

"I'm sure of that," Isaid. Seeing that she was about to leave, I asked her where IsidoreBaltazar hadslept last night.  

"On his straw mat.Whereelse?" Giggling softly, she gathered up her skirts and petticoats andstepped out into the yard. I watched her until she disappeared behind the stonearch. My eyes hurt, dazzled from staring into the light.  

Moments later, there was a loudknock on one of the doors that opened into the corridor.  

"Are you decent?" thecaretaker asked, pushing the door open before I had a chance to say that I was."Nourishment for your brain," he said, placing a bamboo tray on thetable.  

He poured me a bowl of clearbroth, then urged me to eat the machacaSonorense. "I made it myself,"he informed me.  

The mixture of scrambled eggs,shredded meat, onions, and hot chilies was delicious.  

"When you finish, I'll takeyou to the movies," he said.  

"When I finish eating?"I asked excitedly, stuffing a whole tortilla in my mouth.  

"When you finish with yourpaper," he clarified.  

As soon as I was done with themeal, he said that I had to get acquainted with the dog. "Otherwise, youwon't be able to go outside. Not even to the outhouse."  

I was about to tell him that Ihad actually met the dog and had gone to the outhouse last night, when with aswift gesture of his chin he motioned me to follow him into the yard.  

The big black dog lay curled upin the shade of the high fence of plaited cane. The caretaker squatted besidethe animal and scratched it behind the ears. Bending even lower, he whisperedsomething in the animal's ear.  

Abruptly, the caretaker rose:Startled, I stepped backward, falling on my seat. The dog whined, and thecaretaker, with one incredible leap, cleared the high fence. I scrambled to myfeet and was about to run out of there fast when the dog stretched its forepawsand placed them on my feet. I could feel the pressure of the paws through myshoes. The dog looked up at me and opened its muzzle in a wide, drawn-out yawn.Its tongue and gums were blue-black.  

"That's a sign of the finestpedigree."  

I was so startled to hear thecaretaker behind me that I wheeled around. I lost my balance again and fellover the dog. I didn't dare move at first, then slowly I eased my head to theside. The dog's amber-colored eyes were fixed on me. The dog bared its teeth,not in a growl but in a most friendly, doggish smile.  

"Now you're friends,"the caretaker pronounced, helping me up. "And it's time for you to starton your paper."  

The next three days weredominated entirely by my desire to finish my task. I worked for long stretchesbut somehow didn't feel the passing of time.

It wasn't that I was so engrossedin my work that I lost track of the hours. Rather, time seemed to havetransformed itself into a matter of space. That is, I began to count time asinterludes; interludes between my sightings of Esperanza.  

Every day around midmorning, whenI was eating my breakfast- whatever she had left for me in the kitchen- shewould suddenly appear. Soundlessly, she seemed to materialize out of theperpetual bluish smoke that hung about the kitchen like a cloud.  

Invariably, she combed my hairwith a coarse wooden comb but never said a word. Neither did I.  

I would see her again in theafternoons. As soundlessly as she appeared in the kitchen, she would abruptlymaterialize in the yard, and sit in her custom-made rocking chair under thestone archway.  

For hours, she would stare intospace, as if she could see beyond the limits of human vision.  

Other than a brief nod or a quicksmile, there was no interaction between us at that hour, yet I knew that I wasprotected in her silence.  

The dog, as if it had beendirected by the caretaker, never left my side. It followed me around day andnight, even to the outhouse.  

I particularly looked forward toour late afternoon outings, when the dog and I would race across the fieldstoward the row of trees that divided the plots of land.  

There we would sit in the shade,staring into space like Esperanza.  

It sometimes seemed to me that Icould reach out and touch the distant mountains.  

I would listen to the breezerustling through the branches and wait until the yellow light of the settingsun turned the leaves into golden chimes. I waited until the leaves turned blueand finally black.  

Then the dog and I would raceback to the house, to escape the faint voice of the wind telling about theloneliness of that arid land.  

On the fourth day I awoke,startled.  

From beyond the door that openedto the yard, a voice called out, "Time to get up, lazy bones." Thecaretaker's voice was drowsily indifferent.

"Why don't you comein?" I asked. "Where were you all these days?"  

There was no answer.  

I sat wrapped in my blanket,waiting for him to appear, too tense and sleepy to go out and see for myselfwhy he was hiding.  

After a while I roused myself andwent outside.  

The yard was deserted.  

In an effort to chase mysleepiness away, I drew bucket after bucket of cold water over my head.  

My breakfast was different thatmorning: Esperanza didn't show up.  

It was only after I settled downto work that I realized that the dog had also vanished.  

Listlessly, I thumbed through mybooks. I had very little energy and even less desire to work. I just sat at mytable for hours, gazing at the distant mountains through my opened door.  

The transparent silence of theafternoon was broken now and then by the faint clucking of hens scratching theground for seeds and by the penetrating cry of the cicadas vibrating in theblue, cloudless light as if it were still noon.

I was about to doze off when Iheard some noise in the yard.  

I looked up quickly.  

The caretaker and the dog layside by side on a straw mat in the shade of the fence.  

There was something odd about theway they lay, sprawled out on the straw mat. They were so still, they appeareddead.  

With a mixture of concern andcuriosity, I tiptoed toward them.  

The caretaker noticed my presencebefore the dog did. He opened his eyes wide in an exaggerated fashion, then inone swift motion sat up crosslegged and asked, "Did you missme?"  

"I did!" I exclaimed,then laughed nervously.  

It seemed an odd question for himto ask. "Why didn't you come into my room this morning?"  

Seeing his blank expression Iadded, "Where have you been for the past three days?"  

Instead of answering, he asked ina harsh tone, "How is your work coming along?"  

I was so taken aback by hisbrusqueness, I didn't know what to say.  

I didn't know whether I shouldtell him that my paper was none of his business or whether I should confessthat I was stuck.  

"Don't upset yourself tryingto think up an explanation," he said. "Just tell me the truth.  

"Tell me that you need myexpert opinion on your term paper."

Afraid I would burst outlaughing, I squatted beside the dog and scratched its head.  

"Well?" the caretakerdemanded. "Can't you admit that without me you're lost?"  

Uncertain about the state of hismind, I decided it was better to humor him than to contradict him.  

I said that, indeed, I hadn'twritten a single line the whole day; and that I had been waiting for him;knowing that only he could rescue me.  

I assured him that it wasn'treally up to my professors at school but up to him to decide my fate as agraduate student.  

The caretaker beamed at me, thenasked that I bring him my paper. He wanted to have a look at it.  

"It's in English," I saidpointedly. "You won't be able to read it."  

My impulse, to add that even ifit were in Spanish he wouldn't be able to understand it, was checked by thecertainty that I wasn't that ill mannered after all.  

He insisted I bring him thepaper.  

I did.  

He spread out the pages allaround him, some on the mat, others on the dusty ground, then retrieved fromhis shirt pocket a pair of metal-rimmed glasses and put them on.  

"It's important to look likean educated man," he whispered, leaning toward the dog.  

The animal pricked up one ear,then made a soft growling sound, as if to agree with him.  

The dog shifted positions, andthe caretaker motioned me to sit between him and the animal.  

He looked like an owl; eruditeand austere as he pored over the loose sheets on the ground.

He made disapproving, cluckingsounds with his tongue. He scratched his head. He shuffled and reshuffled thesheets, as if trying to find some order that eluded him.  

The muscles in my neck andshoulders ached from sitting in that position.

Sighing with impatience, Ireclined against the fence and closed my eyes.

In spite of my growingirritation, I must have dozed off, for I was suddenly startled by a faint yetinsistent buzz.  

I opened my eyes. Sitting nearby,facing me, sat a gorgeously dressed, beautiful-looking woman. She saidsomething to me, but I couldn't hear what it was. The buzzing in my earsrose.  

The woman leaned forward, towardme, and in a loud, clear voice asked, "Aren't you going to say hello tome?" "Nelida! When did you get here? I was trying to shake off thebuzzing in my ears," I explained.  

She nodded, then drew up herlong, shapely legs under the skirt she was wearing and wrapped her arms aroundthem.  

"It's good to see you,"she said dreamily.  

With frowning brows, thecaretaker mumbled to himself as he studied the pages before him.  

"Your scribbles are not onlyhard to read," he pronounced after a while, "but they don't make muchsense.  

Nelida stared at me with narrow,critical eyes, as if daring me to contradict him.  

I fidgeted, eager to get away, toescape the scrutiny of her unnerving gaze.

She leaned forward and grabbed myarm in a firm grip.  

The caretaker began to read fromthe pages with an exasperating slowness.

What he read sounded familiar,but whether he actually followed the text I couldn't tell because I couldn'tconcentrate. I was too irritated by the capricious manner in which he cut thesentences, the phrases, and sometimes even the words.  

"All in all," he statedupon finishing with the last page, "it's a badly written paper."  

He stacked the loose sheets in apile, then leaned against the fence.  

Very deliberately he bent hisknees up in the same position IsidoreBaltazar had taught me- the right legcrossed over with the ankle resting on the left thigh- and closed hiseyes.  

He was silent for so long Ithought he had fallen asleep and was thus startled when in a slow, measuredvoice he began to talk about anthropology, history, and philosophy.  

His thoughts seemed to come intobeing while he was talking, and words flowed out of him clearly and precisely,with a simplicity that was easy to follow, easy to understand.  

I listened to him attentively.Yet at the same time I couldn't help thinking, "How could he possibly knowso much about Western intellectual trends? How educated was he? Who was hereally?"  

"Could you repeat everythingagain?" I asked the instant he finished speaking. "I'd like to takenotes."  

"Whatever I said is all inyour paper," the caretaker assured me. "It is buried under too manyfootnotes, quotes, and undeveloped ideas."

He leaned closer until his headalmost touched mine.  

"It's not enough to citeworks in an effort to supply your paper with the veracity it lacks."  

Dumbfounded, I could only stareat him.  

"Will you help me write mypaper?" I asked.  

"No, I can't do that,"he said with a grave look in his eyes. "That's something you must do onyour own."  

"But I can't," Iprotested. "You just pointed out how badly written my paper is. Believeme, that's my best shot."  

"It's not!" Hecontradicted me forcefully, then gazed at me with an air of astonishment thatwas mingled with a friendly warmth:  

"I'm sure your professorswill accept the paper once it's neatly typed.

"But I wouldn't. There isnothing original about it."  

I was too stunned to beupset.  

"You're only paraphrasingwhat you have read," the caretaker continued. "I demand that you relymore on your own opinions, even if they contradict what is expected ofyou."  

"It's only a termpaper," I said defensively. "I know it needs more work, but I alsoneed to please my professors.  

"Whether I agree with theexpressed views is beside the point. I need to get accepted into graduateschool, and that entails, in part, pleasing my professors."  

"If you want to drawstrength from the sorcerers' world," he said, "you can no longer workunder such premises.  

"Ulterior motives are notacceptable in this magical world of ours.

"If you want be a graduatestudent, then you have to behave like a warrior, not like a woman who has beentrained to please. "You know, even when you are beastially nasty, youstrive to please.  

"But from now, whenever youwrite, since you were not trained to do writing, you can certainly adopt a newmood: the warriors' mood."  

"What do you mean by thewarriors' mood?" I asked. "Do I have to fight myprofessors?"  

"Not your professors,"he said. "You have to fight yourself; every inch of the way.  

"And you have to do it soartfully and so cleverly that no one will notice your struggle."  

I wasn't quite sure what hemeant, and I didn't want to know, either.

Before he could say anythingelse, I asked him how he knew so much about anthropology, history, andphilosophy.  

Smiling, he shook his head."Didn't you notice how I did it?" he asked, then proceeded to answerhis own question. "I picked the thoughts out of thin air. I simplystretched my energy fibers and hooked those thoughts, as one hooks fish with afishing line, from the immeasurable ocean of thoughts and ideas that is outthere."  

He made a wide gesture with hisarms, as though to encompass the very air around him.  

I argued, "To pick upthoughts, IsidoreBaltazar told me, one must know which are the ones that mightbe useful. So you must have studied history, philosophy, andanthropology."  

"Perhaps I did at onetime," he said undecidedly, scratching his head in perplexity. "Imust have."  

"You had to!" I statedsententiously, as if I had made a great discovery.  

Sighing loudly, he leaned againstthe fence and closed his eyes.  

Nelida asked, "Why do youinsist on always being right?"  

Startled to hear her speak, Istared at her open-mouthed.  

The corners of her lips curled upinto a mischievous, secret smile. Then she motioned me to close my mouth.  

I had been so engrossed inlistening to what the caretaker had to say about my paper I had forgotten allabout her even though she had been sitting right in front of me.  

Or had she? The thought that shemight have gone and returned without me noticing it filled me withanxiety.  

"Don't let that botheryou," Nelida said softly, as if I had voiced my fears out loud. "Weare in the habit of coming and going without anyone ever noticingus."  

Her tone canceled the chillingeffect of her statement.  

Gazing from one to the other, Iwondered whether they would actually vanish, unperceived, before my veryeyes.  

I tried to make sure theywouldn't.  

Stretching like a cat, I lay flaton the straw mat and inched my foot toward the hem of Nelida's dress, which trailedon the ground; my hand went to the caretaker's jacket.  

He must have noticed the tug onhis sleeve, for he sat up abruptly and stared at me.  

I closed my eyes but keptwatching them through my lashes.  

They didn't move. Their straightpostures betrayed no trace of fatigue, whereas I had to fight to keep my eyesopen.  

A cool breeze, fragrant with thescent of eucalyptus, sprang up. Streaks of colored clouds trailed across thesky, and the deep, transparent blue grew slowly more diffused. It melted awayso languidly, it was impossible to distinguish what was cloud and what was sky,what was day and what was night.  

With my foot on the hem ofNelida's dress and clutching onto the caretaker's jacket as if my life dependedon it, I fell asleep.  

It seemed that only moments hadpassed when I was awakened by a hand touching my face.  

"Florinda?" Iwhispered, knowing instinctively that the woman sitting beside me was someoneelse. She was murmuring something.  

I had the feeling she had beenmurmuring for a long time and I had just awakened to hear what she wassaying.  

I wanted to sit up, but the womanprevented me from doing so with a gentle but firm touch on my shoulder.  

A small flame flickered somewhereunsteadily in the darkness.  

It shed a gentle, wavering pallorupon her face. It made her look ghostlike.

She seemed to grow as she movedcloser. Her eyes, too, grew larger as they stared down into mine. The arch ofher brows, like a curve drawn with a black marker, was concentrated in a frown.

"Nelida!" I sighed withrelief.  

Smiling faintly, she nodded.  

I wanted to ask her about thecaretaker and about my term paper, but she pressed her fingers against my lipsand continued with her murmurings.  

The sound grew fainter andfainter. It seemed to come from a great distance, and then it finally fadedaway all together.  

Nelida rose and motioned me to dothe same.  

I did so and noticed that we werenot outside in the yard but in one of the empty bedrooms along thecorridor.  

"Where is my termpaper?" I asked, alarmed at the possibility that the wind might havescattered the pages. The idea that I might have to begin my work from scratchmade me feverish.  

Nelida made an imperious gesturewith her chin, motioning me to follow her.

She was much taller than I, andlooked exactly like Florinda.  

Had it not been that she was sodelicate, I wouldn't have been able to tell them apart.  

At that moment, she appeared asan infinished version of Florinda- as Florinda must have been when she was younger.  

There was something so etherealabout Nelida, so frail, and yet so appealing. I used to joke withIsidoreBaltazar that if I were a man I would go for her.  

He had retorted- I had hoped injest- that that was perhaps the reason why Nelida hardly ever talked tome.  

We headed toward my room.  

I heard steps all around me.  

It couldn't be Nelida, I decided,for she walked so quietly she seemed not to touch the ground. The absurd notionthat I was hearing my own steps made me tiptoe as silently as a cat, yet Istill kept hearing the steps.  

Someone's feet moved like minedid; the same rhythm echoing slightly on the tile floor.  

I glanced backward several times,but there was, of course, no one behind me. Hoping to dispel my fear, I giggledout loud.  

Nelida turned around abruptly. Ithought she was going to reprimand me, but she, too, began to laugh.  

She put her arm around myshoulders. Her touch wasn't particularly warm or tender.  

I didn't care. I liked her, andher touch was very reassuring to me.  

Still giggling, and with thesound of footsteps all around us, we entered my room.  

A strange brilliance hung aboutthe walls, as if a fog had seeped through the four doors in the room, which atthat moment I could not see.  

The fog had changed the shape ofthe room, giving it strange contours, almost making it round.  

Regardless of how much I blinkedand squinted, all I could see was the table I had been working on for the pastthree days. I stepped closer.  

To my relief, I saw my paperarranged in a neat pile. Next to it were all my pencils: They had beensharpened.  

"Nelida!" I cried outexcitedly, wheeling around. I could no longer see her.  

The fog was denser now. It closedaround me with every breath I drew. It seeped inside me, filling me with adeep, excited feeling of lightness and lucidity.  

Guided by some invisible source,I sat at the table and spread out the pages all around me.  

Right under my watchful eyes theentire structure of my paper emerged, superimposing itself on my original draftlike a double exposure on a frame of film.

I lost myself in admiration ofthe skilled development of the themes. As if they were being maneuvered by someinvisible hand that thought and wrote, the paragraphs rearranged themselves,imposinging a new order. It was all so gorgeously clear and simple that Ilaughed out of joy.  

"Write it down."  

The words echoed softly in theroom. Curious, I glanced all und me, but I saw no one.  

Knowing that whatever I wasexperiencing was definitely more than a dream, I reached for my notepad and apencil, and began to write with a furious speed.  

Ideas came to me with anincredible clarity and ease. They pulsated in my head and in my body like soundwaves. I simultaneously heard and saw the words.  

Yet it wasn't my eyes or my earsthat perceived what was there before me. Rather, it was some filaments withinme that were ching out and, like some noiseless vacuum cleaner, sucking up thewords shining before me like dust particles.

After a while, the order superimposedon my paper began to blur. One by one the lines faded away.  

Desperately, I tried to hold onto this splendid structure, knowing that it would all vanish without a trace.Only the memory of my awareness of that magnificent lucidity remained. And thenthat, too, was extinguished, as if a candle had been blown out.  

A curl of fog, as fine as athread, lingered in the room. Then it withdrew in little ripples, and anoppressive darkness closed in around me. I was so drained, I knew I was goingto faint.  

"Lie down!"  

I didn't even bother to look up,knowing that I wouldn't be able to see anyone. With great effort, I rose frommy chair and staggered to my bed.