The caretaker was dozing on hisfavorite bench in the shade of the zapote tree.

That's all he had been doing forthe past two days.  

He no longer swept the patios orraked the leaves outside but instead sat for hours on that bench, dozing orstaring into the distance, as if he had a secret understanding with somethingthat only he could see.  

Everything had changed in thehouse.  

'Did I do wrong to come to seethem?' I asked myself incessantly. I felt, as usual, guilty and defensive.  

All I did was to sleepuninterrupted for hours on end.  

When awake, however, I wasdisturbingly aware that nothing was the same.

Aimlessly, I wandered about thehouse, but it was to no avail. Something seemed to have fled from thehouse.  

The caretaker's long and loudsigh intruded on my thoughts.  

Unable to contain my anxiety anylonger, I pushed my book aside, rose to my feet, and covered the short distancebetween us.  

"Won't you rake and burnsome leaves today?" I asked.  

He looked up, startled, but didnot answer.  

He was wearing sunglasses. Icouldn't see the expression in his eyes through the dark lenses.  

I didn't know whether to stay orto leave or to wait for his reply.  

Afraid he might doze off again, Iasked in a loud, impatient tone, "Is there a reason why you aren't rakingand burning leaves any longer?"  

He parried my question with oneof his own, "Have you seen or heard a leaf fall for the past twodays?"  

His eyes seemed to drill throughme as he lifted his glasses.  

It was the seriousness of histone and demeanor rather than his statement which I found ridiculous; thatcompelled me to answer. "No," I said.

He beckoned to me to sit besidehim on the bench.  

Leaning close to me, he whisperedin my ear, "These trees know exactly when to let go of theirleaves."  

He glanced all around him, as ifhe were afraid we might be overheard, then added in that same confidentialwhisper, "And now the trees know that there's no need for their leaves tofall."  

"Leaves wilt and fall,regardless of anything," I pronounced pompously. "It's a law ofnature."  

"These trees are utterlycapricious," he maintained stubbornly. "They have a mind of their own.They don't follow the laws of nature."

"What has prompted the treesnot to drop any leaves?" I asked, trying to keep an earnestexpression.  

"That's a goodquestion," he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully:  

"I'm afraid I don't know theanswer yet. The trees haven't told me."

He smiled at me inanely andadded, "I've already told you, these trees are temperamental."  

Before I had a chance to retort,he asked, out of the blue, "Did you make yourself your lunch?"  

His abrupt change of subject tookme by surprise.  

"I did," I admitted,then hesitated for a moment.  

An almost defiant mood took holdof me. "I don't care all that much about food. I'm quite used to eatingthe same food day in and day out. If it weren't for the fact that I getpimples, I would live on chocolates and nuts."  

Throwing all caution to thewinds, I began to complain.  

I told the caretaker that Iwished the women would talk to me. "I would appreciate if they'd let meknow what is going on. Anxiety is taking its toll on me."  

After I had said all I wanted tosay, I felt much better; much relieved.  

"Is it true that they areleaving forever?" I asked.  

"They have already leftforever," the caretaker said.  

Seeing my noncomprehendingexpression, he added, "But you knew that, didn't you? You're just makingconversation with me, aren't you?"  

Before I had a chance to recoverfrom my shock, he asked me in a genuinely puzzled tone, "Why should thisbe shocking to you?"  

He paused for a moment, as if togive me time to think, then answered the question himself. "Ah, I've gotit!  

"You are furious becausethey took IsidoreBaltazar with them." He patted me repeatedly on my back,as though to emphasize each word.  

His gaze told me that he didn'tcare if I gave in to either anger or tears.

To know that I had no audiencegave me an instantaneous sense of equanimity.

"I didn't know that," Imurmured. "I swear, I didn't know it."

I stared at him in mutedespair.  

I felt all the blood drain frommy face. My knees ached. My chest was so tight I couldn't breathe.  

Knowing that I was about tofaint, I held on to the bench with both hands.

I heard the caretaker's voicelike a distant sound. "No one nows if he'll ever be back. Not even I knowthat."  

Leaning toward me, he added,"My personal opinion is that he has gone with them temporarily, but he'llcome back; if not right away, some day. That's my opinion."  

I searched his eyes, wonderingwhether he was mocking me.  

His cheerful face radiated sheergoodwill and honesty, and his eyes were as guileless as a child's.  

"However, when he returns,he won't be IsidoreBaltazar anymore," the caretaker warned me. "TheIsidoreBaltazar you knew, think is already gone.  

"And do you know what's thesaddest part?" He paused, then answered his own question. "You tookhim so for granted that you didn't even thank him for all his care; his help,his affection for you.  

"Our great tragedy is to bebuffoons, oblivious to anything else, except our buffoonery."  

I was too devastated to say aword.  

Abruptly, the caretaker rose tohis feet.  

Without another word, as if hewere too embarrassed to stay with me, he walked toward the path that led to theother house.  

"You can't just leave mehere by myself," I shouted after him.

He turned, waved at me, and thenbegan to laugh. It was a loud, joyful sound that raised echoes across thechaparral.  

He waved once again, thenvanished, as if the bushes had swallowed him.

Incapable of following him, Iwaited for him to return or to appear suddenly in front of me and scare me halfto death. I was almost bracing myself for a fright I intuited in my body morethan I anticipated in my mind.  

As it had happened before, Ididn't see or hear Esperanza approach, but I sensed her presence.  

I turned around and there shewas, sitting on the bench under the zapote tree.  

I became elated just watchingher.  

"I thought I was never goingto see you again," I sighed. "I had nearly resigned myself to it. Ithought you were gone."  

"Goodness gracious!"she chided me in mock consternation.  

"Are you reallyZuleica?" I blurted out.  

"Not a chance," sheretorted. "I am Esperanza.  

"What are you doing? Drivingyourself nuts with questions no one can answer?"  

Never in my life have I been soclose to a total breakdown as at that moment.

I felt that my mind was not goingto take in all that pressure. I was going to be ripped apart by my anguish andturmoil.  

"Brace yourself, girl,"Esperanza said harshly. "The worst is yet to come.  

"But we can't spare you. Tostop the pressure now, because you're about to go bonkers, is unthinkable tosorcerers.  

"It's your challenge to betested today. You either live or you die; and I don't mean thismetaphorically."  

"I'll never seeIsidoreBaltazar?" I asked, hardly able to speak through my tears.  

"I can't lie to you to spareyour feelings.  

"No, he'll never beback.  

"IsidoreBaltazar was only amoment of sorcery. A dream that passed after being dreamed.IsidoreBaltazar, asthe dream, is gone already."  

A small, almost wistful smilecurved her lips. "What I don't know yet," she continued, "is ifthe man, the new nagual, is gone forever as well.  

"You understand, of course,that even if he returns, he won't be IsidoreBaltazar. He'll be someone else youhave to meet all over again."  

"Would he be unknown tome?" I asked, not quite sure whether I wanted to know.  

"I don't know, mychild," she said with the weariness of uncertainty. "I simply don'tknow.  

"I am a dream myself; and sois the new nagual.  

"Dreams like us are impermanent,for it is our impermanence that allows us to exist.  

"Nothing holds us, exceptthe dream."  

Blinded by my tears, I couldbarely see her.  

"To ease your pain, sinkdeeper into yourself," she said softly:

"Sit up with your kneesraised and grab your ankles with crossed arms, right ankle with the left hand.Put your head on your knees and let the sadness go.  

"Let the earth soothe yourpain. Let the earth's healing force come to you."  

I sat on the ground in exactlythe manner she prescribed.  

Within moments my sadnessvanished.  

A deep bodily sensation ofwell-being replaced my anguish.  

I lost sight of myself, in anycontext except the context of the moment at hand. Without my subjective memoryI had no pain.  

Esperanza patted the place besideher on the bench.  

As soon as I was seated, she tookmy hand in hers and rubbed it for an instant as if she were massaging it, thensaid that it was quite a fleshy hand for being so bony.  

She turned the palm up andstudied it intently. She didn't say a word, but gently curled my hand into afist.  

We sat in silence for a longtime. It was late afternoon. Nothing could be heard but the rhythmic sound ofleaves moved by the breeze.  

As I stared at her, a mostuncanny certainty possessed me: I knew that Esperanza and I had already talkedat length about my coming to the witches' house and the sorcerers'departure.  

"What is it with me,Esperanza?" I asked. "Am I dreaming?"  

"Well," she beganslowly. There was a gleam in her eyes as she proposed I test the dream."Sit on the ground and test it."

I did. All I felt was thecoldness of the rock I had sat on. No feeling was sent back to me.  

"I'm not dreaming," Iasserted. "Then why do I feel that we've already talked?"  

I searched her face to see if Icould find a clue to my dilemma stamped on her features.  

"This is the first time I'veseen you since my arrival, but I feel we've been together every day," Imumbled, more to myself than to be heard. "It's been seven daysnow."  

"It's been much longer. Butyou must resolve this puzzle yourself, with minimal help," Esperanzasaid.  

I nodded in agreement.  

There was so much I wanted toask, but I knew and accepted that it would be useless to talk. I knew withoutknowing how I knew it that we had already covered all my questions. I wassaturated with answers.  

Esperanza regarded methoughtfully, as if she doubted my realization.

Then, very slowly, enunciatingher words carefully, she said, "I want you to know that the awareness youhave gotten here, no matter how deep and permanent it may seem to you, is onlytemporary.  

"You'll get back to yournonsense soon enough. That's our women's fate; to be especiallydifficult."  

"I think you arewrong," I protested. "You don't know me at all."  

"It's precisely because Iknow you that I'm saying this."  

She paused for a moment, and whenshe spoke again her voice was harsh and serious. "Women are very cagey.Remember, being reared to be a servant makes you extremely shifty andclever."  

Her explosive, resonant laughtererased any desire I might have had to protest.

"The best thing you can dois not to say anything," she declared.

Taking my hand, she pulled me upand suggested that we go to the small house for a long, much-needed talk.  

We didn't go inside the house butsat down on a bench by the front door.  

Silently, we just sat there fornearly an hour.  

Then Esperanza turned toward me:She didn't seem to see me. In fact, I wondered if she had forgotten that I hadcome with her and was sitting beside her.

Without acknowledging mypresence, she stood up and moved a few steps away from me and gazed at theother house, nestled among a clump of trees. It was quite a while before shesaid, "I'm going far."  

I couldn't tell whether it washope, excitement, or apprehension that gave me a strangely sickening sensationin the pit of my stomach.  

I knew that she wasn't referringto distance in terms of miles but in terms of other worlds.  

"I don't care how far we'regoing," I said with a bravado I was far from feeling.  

I desperately wished to know, butdidn't dare ask, what would be at the end of our journey.  

Esperanza smiled and opened herarms wide as if to embrace the setting sun.

The sky in the west was a fieryred; the distant mountains, a shadowy purple. A light breeze swept through thetrees: The leaves shimmered and rustled.

A silent hour went by, and thenall was still. The spell of twilight immobilized everything around us. Everysound and movement ceased: The contours of bushes, trees, and hills were soprecisely defined, they appeared to have been etched against the sky.  

I moved closer to Esperanza asthe shadows crawled up on us and blackened the sky.  

The sight of the other silenthouse, with its lights twinkling like glowworms in the dark, aroused somedeeply buried emotion within me.  

The emotion wasn't connected toany particular feeling of the moment, but to a vaguely sad, nostalgic memoryburied in childhood.  

I must have been totallyengrossed in my reveries: Suddenly I found, myself walking alongsideEsperanza.  

My tiredness, my former anxiety,had all vanished.  

Filled with an overwhelming senseof vigor, I walked in a kind of ecstasy, a silent happiness, my feet drawnforward but not by my volition alone.  

The path we were walking on endedabruptly.  

The ground rose and treesstretched high above us. Huge boulders were scattered here and there. Fromsomewhere in the distance came the sound of running water, like a soft,comforting chant.  

Sighing with sudden fatigue, I leanedagainst one of the boulders and wished that this was the end of ourjourney.  

"We haven't reached ourdestination yet!" Esperanza shouted.

She was already halfway up somerocks and she moved with the agility of a goat.

She didn't wait for me. Shedidn't even look back to see if I was following her.  

My short rest had robbed me of mylast strength. Gasping for breath, I slipped repeatedly on the stones as Iscrambled after her.  

Halfway up, the trail continuedaround a huge boulder. The dry and brittle vegetation gave way to lusciousgrowth, dark in the early evening light. The air, too, was no longer the same:It was humid and, for me, easier to breathe.

Esperanza moved unerringly alonga narrow path: It was full of shadows, full of silences and rustlings.  

She knew each of the night'smysterious sounds. She identified each of its pulsating croaks, cries, calls,and hisses.  

The path came to an end in frontof some steps cut into the rock. The steps led to a concealed mound ofstones.  

"Pick one," sheordered, "and put it in your pocket."

Worn as smooth as pebbles in abrook, the stones all looked the same at first.

Upon closer examination, however,I discovered that they were all different. Some were so smooth and shiny theyappeared to have been polished in a tumbler.

It took me quite some time untilI found one I liked.  

It was heavy, yet it fit easilyin my palm. Its light brown, bulky mass was wedge-shaped and crisscrossed byalmost translucent milky veins.  

Startled by a noise, I almostdropped the stone. "Someone is following us," I whispered.  

"Nobody is followingus!" Esperanza exclaimed, with a look halfway between amusement andincredulity.  

Seeing me draw back behind atree, she giggled softly and said that it was probably a toad jumping throughthe underbrush.  

I wanted to tell her that toadsdon't jump in the darkness, but I wasn't sure it was true. It surprised me thatI hadn't just said it with the most absolute certainty; as was my habit.  

"Something is wrong with me,Esperanza," I said in an alarmed tone of voice. "I'm notmyself."  

"There is nothing wrong withyou, dear," she assured me absentmindedly. "In fact, you are moreyourself than ever."  

"I feel strange..." Myvoice trailed off.  

I had begun to see a pattern inwhat had been happening to me since the first time I arrived at the witches'house.  

"It's very hard to teachsomething so unsubstantial as dreaming," Esperanza said. "Especiallyto women.

"We women are extremely coyand clever: After all, we've been slaves all our lives.  

"We women know how toprecisely manipulate things when we don't want anything to upset what we haveworked so hard to obtain: our status quo."

"Do you mean that mendon't?"  

"They certainly do, but theyare more overt. Women fight underhandedly.

"Their preferred fightingtechnique is the slave's maneuver: to turn the mind off.  

"They hear without payingattention. They look without seeing."

She added that to instruct womenwas an accomplishment worthy of praise.  

"We like the openness ofyour fighting," she went on. "There is high hope for you.  

"What we fear the most isthe agreeable woman who doesn't mind the new, and does everything you ask herto do; then turns around and denounces you as soon as she gets tired or boredwith the newness."  

"I think I am beginning tounderstand," I mused uncertainly.  

"Of course you have begun tounderstand!" Her assertion was so comically triumphant, I had tolaugh:  

"You have even begun tounderstand what intent is."  

"You mean I am beginning tobe a sorceress?" I asked.  

My whole body shook as I tried tosuppress a fit of giggles.  

"Since you arrived here,you've been dreaming-awake on and off," Esperanza stated. "That's whyyou fall asleep so much."  

There was no mockery; not even atrace of condescension in her smiling face.

We walked in silence for a while,and then she said that the difference between a sorcerer and an ordinary personwas that the sorcerer could enter into a state of dreaming-awake at will.  

She tapped my arm repeatedly, asif to emphasize her point, and in a confidential tone added, "And you aredreaming-awake because, in order to help you hone your energy, we have createda bubble around you since the first night you arrived."  

Esperanza went on to say thatfrom the moment they first met me, they had nicknamed me Fosforito, littlematch. "You burn too fast and uselessly."  

She gestured for me to remainquiet and added that I didn't know how to focus my energy.  

"Your energy is deployed toprotect and uphold the idea of yourself."

Again she motioned me to besilent, said that what we think is our personal self is, in actuality, only anidea: She claimed that the bulk of our energy is consumed in defending thatidea.  

Esperanza's eyebrows lifted alittle, an elated grin spreading across her face.  

Esperanza explained, "Toreach a point of detachment, where the self is just an idea that can be changedat will, is a true act of sorcery; and the most difficult of all.  

"When the idea of the selfretreats, sorcerers have the energy to align themselves with intent and be morethan what we believe is normal.  

"Women, because they have awomb, can focus their attention with great facility on something outside theirdreams while dreaming," she explained:

"That's precisely what youhave been doing all along, unbeknownst to yourself. That object becomes abridge that connects you to intent."

"And what object do Iuse?"  

There was a flicker of impatiencein her eyes. Then she said that it was usually a window or a light or even thebed.  

"You're so good at it thatit is second nature with you," she assured me:  

"That's why you havenightmares.  

"I told you all this whenyou were in a deep state of dreaming-awake, and you understood: As long as yourefuse to focus your attention on any object prior to sleeping, you don't havebad dreams.  

"You are cured, aren'tyou?" she asked.  

My initial reaction, of course,was to contradict her.  

However, upon a moment's thought,I could only agree with her: After my meeting with them in Sonora, I had beenfairly free from nightmares.  

"You'll never be really freefrom them as long as you persist in being yourself," she pronounced:  

"What you should do, ofcourse, is to exploit your dreaming talents deliberately and intelligently.  

"That's why you're here. Andthe first lesson is that a woman must, through her womb, focus her attention onan object.  

"Not an object from thedream itself, but an independent one, one from the world prior to thedream.  

"Yet, it isn't the objectthat matters," she hastened to point out:

"What's important is thedeliberate act of focusing on it, at will, prior to the dream and whilecontinuing the dream."  

She warned me that although itsounded simple enough, it was a formidable task that might take me years toaccomplish.  

"What normally happens isthat one awakens the instant one focuses one's attention on the outsideobject," she said.  

"What does it mean to usethe womb?" I interjected. "And how is it done?"  

"You are a woman,"Esperanza said softly. "You know how to feel with your womb."  

I wanted to contradict her, toexplain that I didn't know anything.  

Before I could do so, however,she went on to explain that in a woman, feelings originate in the womb.  

"In men," she claimed,"feelings originate in the brain."

Esperanza poked me in the stomachand added, "Think about it.  

"A woman is heartless exceptwith her brood because her feelings are coming from her womb.  

"In order to focus yourattention with your womb, get an object and put it on your belly or rub it onyour genitalia."  

Esperanza laughed uproariously atmy look of dismay, then, in between fits of laughter, chided me:  

"I wasn't that bad. I couldhave said that you need to smear the object with your juices, but Ididn't.  

Her tone serious again, shecontinued, "Once you establish a deep familiarity with the object it willalways be there to serve you as a bridge."

We walked in silence for astretch, and Esperanza was seemingly deep in thought.  

I was itching to say something,yet knew that I didn't have anything to say.

When Esperanza finally spoke, hervoice was stern, demanding.  

"There is no more time foryou to waste," she said:  

"It's very natural that inour stupidity we screw things up. Sorcerers know this better than anyoneelse.  

"But sorcerers also knowthat there are no second chances.  

"You must learn control anddiscipline because you have no more leeway for mistakes.  

"You screwed up, you know.You didn't even know that IsidoreBaltazar had left."  

My ethereal dike that was holdingthe avalanche of feelings broke down.  

My memory was restored andsadness overtook me.  

My sadness became so intense thatI didn't even notice I had sat and was sinking into the ground as if it weremade out of sponge.  

Finally, the ground swallowedme.  

It was not a suffocating,claustrophobic experience because the sensation of sitting on the surfacecoexisted simultaneously with the awareness of being swallowed by the earth; adual sensation that made me yell, "I'm dreaming now!"  

That loudly spoken announcementtriggered something within me: A new landslide of different memories flooded inon top of me.  

I knew what was wrong with me: Ihad screwed up and had no energy to dream.  

Every night since my arrival, Ihad dreamt the same dream, which I had forgotten about until that verymoment.  

I dreamt that all the womensorcerers came to my room and drilled me in the sorcerers' rationales.  

They told me, on and on, thatdreaming is the secondary function of the womb- the primary being reproductionand whatever is related to it.  

They told me that dreaming is anatural function in women; a pure corollary of energy.  

And given enough energy, the bodyof a woman by itself will awake the womb's secondary functions; and the womanwill dream inconceivable dreams.  

The dreaming energy needed,however, is like aid to an underdeveloped country: It never arrives.  

Something in the overall order ofour social structures prevents that energy from being free so women candream.  

Were that energy free, the womensorcerers told me, it would simply overthrow the 'civilized' order ofthings.  

But women's great tragedy is thattheir social conscience completely dominates their individual conscience.  

Women fear being different anddon't want to stray too far from the comforts of the known. The socialpressures put upon them not to deviate are simply too overpowering.  

And rather than change, womenacquiesce to what has been ordained: 'Women exist to be at the service ofman.'  

Thus, women can never dreamsorcery dreams although they have the organic disposition for it.  

Womanhood has destroyed women'schances: Whether it be tinted with a religious or a scientific slant, it stillbrands women with the same seal:  

Women's main function is toreproduce, and whether they have achieved a degree of political, social, oreconomic equality is ultimately immaterial.

The women sorcerers told me allthis every night.  

The more I remembered andunderstood their words, the greater was my sorrow.  

My grief was no longer for mealone, but for all of us; a race of schizoid beings trapped in a social orderthat has shackled us to our own incapacities.

If we ever break free, it is onlymomentarily; a shortlived clarity before we plunge willingly or forced backinto the darkness.  

"Stop this sentimentalgarbage," I heard a man's voice say. I looked up and saw the caretakerbending over; peering at me.  

"How did you get here?"I asked. I was perplexed and a little flustered:  

"You've been followingus?" More than a question, it was accusation.  

"Yes, I've been followingyou in particular," he leered at me.

I searched his face. I didn'tbelieve him.  

I knew he was poking at me, yet Iwas neither annoyed nor frightened by the intense glint in his eyes.  

"Where is Esperanza?" Iasked. She was nowhere in sight. "Where did she...?" I stammerednervously, unable to get the words out.  

"She's around," hesaid, smiling:  

"Don't worry. I'm also yourteacher. You are in good hands."  

Hesitantly, I put my hand in his.Effortlessly, he pulled me up to a flat boulder overlooking a large,oval-shaped pool of water.  

The pool was fed by a murmuringstream trickling from somewhere in the darkness.  

"And now, take off yourclothes," he said. "It's time for your cosmic bath!"  

"My what?" Certain thathe was joking, I began to laugh.  

But he was serious.  

He tapped me repeatedly on thearm, just like Esperanza did, and urged me to take off my clothes.  

Before I knew what he was doing,he had already untied the laces on my sneakers.

"We don't have all that muchtime," he admonished, then pressed me to get on with it.  

The look he gave me was cold,clinical, impersonal: I might have been the toad Esperanza had claimed wasjumping around.  

The sheer idea of getting intothat dark, cold water, infested, no doubt, with all sorts of slimy creatures,was appalling to me.  

Eager to put an end to thatpreposterous situation, I sidled down the boulder and stuck my toes into thewater.  

"I don't feel a thing!"I cried out, shrinking back in horror. "What's going on? This is notwater!"  

"Don't be childish,"the caretaker scolded me. "Of course it's water. You just don't feel it,that's all."  

I opened my mouth to let out animprecation but controlled myself in time. My horror had vanished.  

"Why don't I feel thewater?" I asked, trying hard to gain time.

I knew that stalling for time wasa useless affair because I had no doubt that I was going to end up in the waterwhether I felt the water or not. However, I had no intention of giving ingracefully.  

"Is this waterless watersome kind of a purification liquid?" I asked.  

After a long silence, chargedwith menacing possibilities, he said that I might call it a purificationliquid.  

He emphasized, "However, Ishould warn you that there isn't a ritual capable of purifying anyone.  

"Purification has to comefrom within. It's a private and lonely struggle."  

"Then why do you want me toget into this water, which is slimy even if I don't feel it?" I said withall the force I could invoke.  

His lips twitched as if he wereabout to laugh, but seemingly reluctant to give in, his face grew grave again,and he said, "I'm going to dive into that pool with you."  

And without any further hesitationhe completely undressed.  

He stood in front of me, barelyfive feet away, stark naked.  

In that strange light that wasneither day nor night, I could see with utter clarity every inch of hisbody.  

He didn't make bashful attemptsto cover his nakedness.  

Quite the opposite; he seemed tobe more than proud of his maleness and paraded it in front of me with defiantinsolence.  

"Hurry up and take off yourclothes," he urged me. "We don't have much time."  

"I'm not going to do that.It's insane!" I protested.  

"You are going to dothat.  

"It's a decision you'll makeall by yourself."  

He spoke without vehemence,without anger, yet with quiet determination.

"Tonight, in this strangeworld, you will know that there is only one way to behave: the sorcerers'way."  

He stared at me with a curiousmixture of compassion and amusement.  

With a grin that was meant toreassure me but didn't, the caretaker said that jumping into the pool wouldjolt me.  

It would shift something withinme. "This shift will serve you, at a later time, to understand what we areand what we do."  

A fleeting smile lit up his faceas he hastened to point out that jumping into the water would not give me theenergy to dream-awake on my own.  

He warned me that it wouldcertainly take a long time to save and hone my energy, and that I might neversucceed.  

"There are no guarantees inthe sorcerers' world," he said.  

Then he conceded that jumpinginto the pool might shift my attention away from my everyday concerns: theconcerns expected of a woman of my age; of my time.  

"Is this a sacredpool?" I asked.  

His brows shot up in obvioussurprise. "It's a sorcerers' pool," he explained, gazing at mesteadily.  

He must have seen that mydecision had been made, for he unfastened the watch around my wrist.  

"The pool is neither holynor evil."  

He shrugged his thin shouldersand fastened my watch around his own wrist.

"Now look at yourwatch," he ordered me. "It's been yours for many years. Feel it on mywrist."  

He chuckled as he started to saysomething and decided against it. "Well, go on, take off yourclothes."  

"I think I'll just wade inwith my clothes on," I mumbled.  

Although I wasn't prudish, Isomehow resisted the idea of standing naked in front of him.  

He pointed out that I would needdry clothes when I got out of the water. "I don't want you to catchpneumonia."  

A wicked smile dawned in hiseyes. "This is real water even though you don't feel it," hesaid.  

Reluctantly, I took off my jeansand shirt.  

"Your panties too," hesaid.  

I walked around the grassy edgeof the pool, wondering whether I should just dive in and get it over with orwhether I should get wet little by little, cupping water in my hands, lettingit trickle down my legs, my arms, my stomach, and, last, over my heart, as Iremembered old women doing in Venezuela before wading into the sea.  

"Here I go!" I criedout, but instead of jumping in I turned to look at the caretaker.  

His immobility frightenedme.  

He seemed to have turned intostone, so still and erect did he sit on the boulder.  

Only his eyes seemed to havelife: They shone in a curiously compelling way, without any source of light toaccount for it.  

It astounded more than saddenedme to see tears trickling down his cheeks.

Without knowing why, I, too,began to weep, silently.  

His tears made their way down, Ithought, into my watch on his wrist.  

I felt the eerie weight if hisconviction, and suddenly my fear and my indecision were gone, and I dove intothe pool.  

The water was not slimy buttransparent like silk; and green.  

I wasn't cold. As the caretakerhad claimed, I didn't feel the water.  

In fact, I didn't feel anything:It was as if I were a disembodied awareness swimming in the center of a pool ofwater that did feel liquid but not wet.  

I noticed that light emanatedfrom the depths of the water.  

I jumped up like a fish to gatherimpetus, then dove in search if the light.

I came up for air. "How deepis this pool?"  

"As deep as the center ofthe earth." Esperanza's voice was clear and loud; it carried suchcertainty that, just to be myself, I wanted to contradict her.  

But there was something uneasy inthe air that stopped me; some unnatural stillness, some tension that wassuddenly broken by a crisp, rustling sound all around us; a sort of warningwhisper; a rushing, ominous warning that something was odd.  

Standing on the exact same spotwhere the caretaker had stood was Esperanza. She was stark naked.  

"Where is thecaretaker?" I shouted in a panic-stricken voice.  

"I am the caretaker,"she said.  

Convinced that those two wereplaying some horrendous trick on me, I propelled myself, with one greatsidestroke, toward the overhanging boulder Esperanza was standing on.  

"What's going on?" Idemanded to know in a voice that was but a whisper, for I could hardlybreathe.  

Gesturing for me to remain still,she moved toward me with that boneless, uncoiling movement so characteristic ofher.  

She craned her neck to look atme, then stepped closer and showed me my watch strapped around her wrist.  

"I am the caretaker,"she repeated.  

I nodded automatically.  

But then, right there in front ofme, instead of Esperanza, was the caretaker, naked as he had been before,pointing at my watch on his wrist.  

I didn't look at the watch: Allmy attention was focused on his sexual organs.

I reached out to touch him, tosee if perhaps he was a hermaphrodite. He wasn't.  

With my hand still probing, Ifelt, more than saw, his body fold into itself, and I was touching a woman'svagina.  

I parted the lips to make surethe penis was not hidden somewhere in there.

"Esperanza..." My voicefaded as something clamped around my neck.

I was conscious of the waterparting as something pulled me into the depths of the pool.  

I felt cold. It wasn't a physicalcoldness but rather the awareness of the absence of warmth, of light, of sound;the absence of any human feeling in that world where that pool existed.  

I awoke to the faint sound ofsnoring: Zuleica was sleeping beside me on a straw mat laid on the ground. Shelooked as beautiful as ever, young and strong, yet vulnerable- unlike the otherwomen sorcerers- in spite of the harmony and power she exuded.  

I watched her for a moment thensat up as all the events of the night came flooding into my mind. I wanted toshake her awake and demand that she tell me what had happened, when I noticedthat we were not by the pool up in the hills but in the exact same spot wherewe had been sitting earlier, by the front door of the real witches' house.  

Wondering whether it had all beena dream, I gently shook her by the shoulder.

"Ah, you finally wokeup," she murmured sleepily.  

"What happened?" Iasked. "You have to tell me everything."  

"Everything?" sherepeated, yawning noisily.  

"Everything that happened atthe pool," I snapped impatiently.  

Again she yawned, and then shegiggled. Studying my watch, which was on her wrist, she said that something inme had shifted more than she had anticipated. "The sorcerers' world has anatural barrier that dissuades timid souls," she explained."Sorcerers need tremendous strength to handle it. You see, it's populatedby monsters, flying dragons, and demonic beings, which, of course, are nothingbut impersonal energy. We, driven by our fears, make that impersonal energyinto hellish creatures."  

"But what about Esperanzaand the caretaker?" I interrupted her. "I dreamt that both werereally you."  

"They are," she said,as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I've just told you.You shifted deeper than I anticipated and entered into what dreamers calldreaming in worlds other than this world.

"You and I were dreaming ina different world. That's why you didn't feel the water. That's the world wherethe nagual Elias found all his inventions. In that world, I can be either a manor a woman. And just like the nagual Elias brought his inventions to thisworld, I bring either Esperanza or the caretaker. Or rather, my impersonalenergy does that."  

I couldn't put my thoughts orfeelings into words. An incredible urge to run away screaming took hold of me,but I couldn't put it into action. My motor control was no longer a volitionalmatter with me. Trying to rise and scream, I collapsed on the ground.  

Zuleica wasn't in the leastconcerned or moved by my condition. She went on talking as if she hadn't seenmy knees give, as if I weren't lying sprawled on the ground like a rag doll."You're a good dreamer. After all, you've been dreaming with monsters allyour life. Now it's time you acquired the energy to dream like sorcerers do, todream about impersonal energy."  

I wanted to interrupt her, totell her that there was nothing impersonal about my dream of Esperanza and thecaretaker; that, in fact, it was worse than the monsters of my nightmares, butI couldn't speak.  

"Tonight, your watch broughtyou back from the deepest dream you have ever had," Zuleica continued,indifferent to the weird sounds emerging from my throat. "And you evenhave a rock to prove it."  

She came to where I lay openmouthed,staring at her. She felt in my pocket. She was right. There it was; the rock Ihad picked from the pile of stones.  

Chapter 19  

A loud, shattering noise wokeme.  

I sat up in my hammock, peeringinto the darkness, and saw that the wooden panels covering the windows weredown.  

A cold, sucking wind swirled uparound me. Leaves rustled across the patio outside my room.  

The rustling grew, then abruptlyfaded to a gentle swishing sound.  

A dim brightness seeped into theroom. Like mist, it clung to the bare walls.

For a moment, as if I wereconjuring him up, IsidoreBaltazar stood at the foot of my hammock.  

"Nagual!" I criedout.  

He looked real, yet there wassomething undefined about him like an image seen in water.  

I cleared my throat to speak, butonly a faint croak escaped my lips as the image dissolved in the mist.  

Then the mist moved, restless andabrupt like the wind outside.  

Too tense to sleep, I sat wrappedin my blanket, pondering whether I had done the right thing to come to thewitches' house looking for the nagualIsidoreBaltazar: I had not known anywhereelse to go.  

I had patiently waited for threemonths, then my anxiety had become so acute that it finally prompted me toact.  

One morning- seven days ago- Ihad driven nonstop to the witches' house.

And there had been no question inmy mind then about whether I had proceeded correctly- not even after I had toclimb over the wall at the back of the house and let myself in through anunlocked window.  

However, after seven days ofwaiting, my certainty had begun to falter.

I jumped out of my hammock ontothe tiled floor, landing hard on the heels of my bare feet. Shaking myself thatway had always helped me dispel my uncertainties.  

It didn't work this time, and Ilay down again in my hammock.  

If there is one thing I shouldhave learned in the three years I had spent in the sorcerers' world, it is thatsorcerers' decisions are final; and my decision had been to live and die in thesorcerers' world.  

Now it was time for me to proveit.  

An unearthly sounding laughterstartled me out of my reveries.  

Eerily it reverberated throughoutthe house, then all was silent again.  

I waited tensely, but there wasno other sound except that of dry leaves being pushed by the wind on the patio.The leaves sounded like a faint, raspy whisper.

Listening to that sound not onlylulled me to sleep but pulled me into the same dream I had been dreaming forthe past seven nights.  

I am standing in the Sonorandesert. It is noon.  

The sun, a silvery disk sobrilliant as to be almost invisible, has come to a halt in the middle of thesky.  

There is not a single sound, nota movement around.  

The tall saguaros, with theirprickly arms reaching toward that immobile sun, stand like sentries guardingthe silence and the stillness.  

The wind, as if it has followedme through the dream, begins to blow with tremendous force.  

It whistles between the branchesof the mesquite trees and shakes them with systematic fury.  

Red dust devils well up inpowdery swirls all around me.  

A flock of crows scatter likedots through the air then fall to the ground a bit farther away, softly, likebits of black veil.  

As abruptly as it has begun, thewind dies down.  

I head toward the hills in thedistance.  

It seems I walk for hours beforeI see a huge, dark shadow on the ground.

I look up. A gigantic bird hangsin the air with outstretched wings, motionless, as though it were nailed to thesky.  

It is only when I gaze again atits dark shadow on the ground that I know that the bird is moving. Slowly,imperceptibly, its shadow glides ahead of me.

Driven by some inexplicable urge,I try to catch up with the shadow; but regardless of how fast I run, the shadowmoves farther and farther away from me.  

Dizzy with exhaustion, I stumbleover my own feet and fall flat on the ground.

As I rise to dust off my clothes,I discover the bird perched on a nearby boulder.  

Its head is slightly turnedtoward me, as though beckoning me.  

Cautiously, I approach it.  

It is enormous and tawny, withfeathers that glisten like burnished copper. Its ambercolored eyes are hard andimplacable and as final as death itself.

I step back as the bird opens itswide wings and takes off.  

It flies high up until it is onlya dot in the sky.  

Yet its shadow on the ground is astraight dark line that stretches into infinity and holds together the desertand the sky.  

Confident that if I summon thewind I will catch up with the bird, I invoke an incantation.  

But there is no force; no powerin my chant. My voice breaks into a thousand whispers that are quickly absorbedby the silence.  

The desert regains its eeriecalm.  

It begins to crumble at theedges, then slowly fades all around me...  

Gradually I became conscious ofmy body lying in the hammock.  

I discerned, through a shiftinghaze, the book-lined walls of the room.  

Then I was fully awake as therealization hit me, as it had hit me every time during the past week, that thishad not been an ordinary dream; and that I knew what it meant.  

The nagual Mariano Aureliano hadonce told me that sorcerers, when they talk among themselves, speak of sorceryas a bird: They call it the bird of freedom.

They say that the bird of freedomonly flies in a straight line and never comes around twice.  

They also say that it is thenagualwho lures the bird of freedom. It is he who entices the bird to shed itsshadow on the warrior's path. Without that shadow, there is no direction.  

The meaning of my dream was thatI had lost the bird of freedom. I had lost the nagual and, without him, allhope and purpose.  

What weighed the most on my heartwas that the bird of free-flew away so fast it didn't give me time to thankthem properly, didn't give me time to express my endless admiration.  

I had assured the sorcerers allalong that I never took their world or their persons for granted, but I did; inparticular IsidoreBaltazar's.  

He surely was going to be with meforever, I thought.  

Suddenly, they were gone, all ofthem, like puffs of air, like shooting stars; and they took IsidoreBaltazarwith them.  

I had sat for weeks on end in myroom, asking myself the same question: How can it be possible that theyvanished like that?  

A meaningless, superfluousquestion, considering what I had experienced and witnessed in their world.

All it revealed was my truenature: meek and doubting.  

For the sorcerers had told me foryears that their ultimate purpose was to burn; to disappear, swallowed by theforce of awareness.  

The old nagual and his party ofsorcerers were ready, but I didn't know it.

They had been preparingthemselves nearly all their lives for the ultimate audacity: to dream-awakethat they sneak past death- as we ordinarily know death to be- and cross overinto the unknown; enhancing and without breaking the unity of their totalenergy.  

My regret was most intense uponrecalling how my usual doubting self would emerge when I least expectedit.  

It was not that I didn't believetheir stupendous, otherworldly, yet so practical aim and purpose.  

Rather, I would explain themaway; integrate them; make them fit into the everyday world of common sense-not quite, perhaps, but certainly coexisting with what was normal and familiarto me.  

The sorcerers certainly tried toprepare me to witness their definitive journey; that they would one day vanishwas something I was almost aware of.  

But nothing could have preparedme for the anguish and despair that followed.

I sank into a well of sadnessfrom which I knew I would never come out.

That part was for me alone todeal with.  

Afraid I would only give in tomore despair if I stayed a moment longer in my hammock, I got up and madebreakfast.  

Or rather, I warmed up lastnight's leftovers: tortillas, rice, and beans- my standard meal of the lastseven days, except that for lunch I would add a can of Norwegian sardines.  

I had found the sardines at agrocery store in the nearest town. I had bought all the cans they had.  

The beans were also canned.  

I washed the dishes and moppedthe floor.  

Then, with broom in hand, I wentfrom room to room looking for some new dirt, a spider web in some forgottencorner.  

From the day I had arrived, I haddone nothing else but scrub floors, wash windows and walls, sweep patios andcorridors.  

Cleaning tasks had alwaysdistracted me from my problems; had always given me solace. Not this time.  

Regardless of how eagerly I wentabout my chores, I couldn't still the anguish; the aching void within me.  

A quick rustling of leavesinterrupted my cleaning chores.  

I went outside to look.  

There was a strong wind blowingthrough the trees. Its force startled me.

I was ready to close the windowswhen the wind abruptly died out.  

A profound melancholy settledover the yard, over the bushes and trees, over the flower and vegetablepatches. Even the bright purple bougainvillea hanging over the wall added tothe sadness.  

I walked over to the Spanishcolonial-motif fountain, built in the middle of the yard, and knelt on the widestone ledge.  

Absent-mindedly, I picked out theleaves and the blossoms that had fallen in the water.  

Then, bending over, I searchedfor my image on the smooth surface.  

Next to my face appeared the verybeautiful, stark, and angular face of Florinda.

Dumbfounded, I watched herreflection, mesmerized by her large, dark, luminous eyes, which contrasteddazzlingly with her braided white hair.  

Slowly, she smiled. I smiledback.  

"I didn't hear youcome," I whispered, afraid that her image might vanish; afraid that shemight be only a dream.  

She let her hand rest on myshoulder, then sat beside me on the stone ledge.  

"I'm going to be with youonly for a moment," she said. "I'll come back later,though."  

I turned around and poured outall the anguish and despair that had accumulated in me.  

Florinda stared at me.  

Her face reflected animmeasurable sadness.  

There were sudden tears in hereyes; tears that were gone as fast as they had come.  

Where is IsidoroBaltazar?" Iasked her.  

I averted my face and gave free reinto my pent-up tears.  

It wasn't self-pity or evensorrow that made me weep, but a deep sense of failure; of guilt and loss. Itwas drowning me.  

Florinda had certainly warned mein the past about such feelings.  

"Tears are meaningless forsorcerers," she said in her deep, husky voice:  

"When you joined thesorcerers' world you were made to understand that the designs of fate, nomatter what they are, are merely challenges that a sorcerer must face withoutresentment or self-pity."  

She paused for a moment, then inher familiar, relentless manner she repeated what she had said to me onprevious occasions.  

"IsidoroBaltazar is nolonger a man but a nagual.  

"He may have accompanied theold nagual; in which case he'll never return. But then, he may nothave."  

But why did he..." My voicedied away before I had asked the question.

"I really don't know at thistime," Florinda said, raising her hand to forestall my protest:  

"It is your challenge torise above this; and as you know, challenges are not discussed orresented.  

"Challenges are activelymet.  

"Sorcerers either succeed inmeeting their challenges, or they fail at it.

"And it doesn't reallymatter which, as long as they are in command."  

Irked by the prosaicness of herfeelings and attitudes, I said resentfully, "How do you expect me to be incommand when the sadness is killing me? IsidoroBaltazar is goneforever."  

She retorted sternly, "Whydon't you heed my suggestion; and behave impeccably regardless of yourfeelings,"  

Her temper was as quick as herbrilliant smile.  

"How can I possibly do that?I know that if the nagual is gone the game is over."  

"You don't need the nagualto be an impeccable sorceress," she remarked:  

"Your impeccability shouldlead you to him even if he's no longer in the world.  

"To live impeccably withinyour circumstances is your challenge.  

"Whether you seeIsidoreBaltazar tomorrow, in a year, or at the end of your life should make nodifference to you."  

Florinda turned her back tome.  

She was silent for a longtime.  

When she faced me again, her facewas calm and oddly bland, like a mask, as though she were making a great effortto control her emotions. There was something so sad about her eyes it made meforget my own anguish.  

Let me tell you a story, youngwoman," she said in an unusually harsh voice, as if her tone was meant tocancel the pain in her eyes:  

"I didn't go with the nagualMariano Aureliano and his party; and neither did Zuleica. Do you knowwhy?"  

Numb with anticipation and fear,I stared at her, openmouthed. "No, Florinda. I don't," I finallymanaged to say.  

Her voice now low and soft, shesaid, "We are here because we don't belong to that party of sorcercers. Wedo, but then we don't really.  

"Our feelings are withanother nagual, the nagual Julian, our teacher.

"The nagual MarianoAureliano is our cohort, and the nagualIsidoreBaltazar, our pupil.  

Like yourself, we've been leftbehind.  

"You, because you were notready to go with them.

"We, because we need moreenergy to take a greater jump; and join perhaps another band of warriors; amuch older band. The nagual Julian's."

I could feel Florinda's alonenessand solitude like a fine mist settling all around me. I barely dared to breathelest she stop talking.  

At great length she told me abouther teacher, the nagual Julian; famous by all accounts.  

Her descriptions of him werecompressed, yet so evocative I could see him before my very eyes: the mostdashing being that ever lived.  

Funny, sharp-witted, andfast-thinking; an incorrigible prankster.A storyteller.

A magician who handled perceptionas a master baker handles dough, kneading it into any shape or form withoutever losing sight of it.  

To be with the nagual Julian,Florinda assured me, was something unforgettable. She confessed that she lovedhim beyond words, beyond feelings. And so did Zuleica.  

Florinda was silent for a longtime, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains, as if drawing strength fromthose sharp-edged peaks.  

When she spoke again her voice wasa barely audible whisper. "The world of sorcerers is a world ofsolitariness, yet in it, love is forever.

"Like my love for the nagualJulian.  

"We move in the world ofsorcerers all by ourselves, accounting only for our acts, our feelings, and ourimpeccability." She nodded, as if to underline her words:  

"I've no longer anyfeelings. Whatever I had went away with the nagual Julian.  

"All I have left is my senseof will, of duty, and of purpose.  

"Perhaps you and I are inthe same boat." She said this so smoothly that it passed before I realizedwhat she had said.  

I stared at her, and as always, Iwas dazzled by her splendid beauty and youthfulness which the years had leftbewitchingly intact.  

"Not me, Florinda," Ifinally said:  

"You had the nagualIsidoreBaltazarand me and all the other disciples I've heard about. I have nothing. I don'teven have my old world."  

There was no self-pity in me,only a devastating knowledge that my life, as I had known it until now, hadended.  

I said, "The nagualIsidoreBaltazaris mine, by right of my power. I'll wait, dutifully, a bit longer, but if he'snot here in this world anymore, neither am I. I know what to do!"  

My voice trailed off as Irealized that Florinda was no longer listening to me.  

She was absorbed in watching asmall crow making its way toward us along the fountain ledge.  

"That's Dionysus," Isaid, reaching into my pocket for his pieces of tortilla.  

I had none with me.  

I looked up at the marvelouslyclear sky.  

I had been so engrossed in mysadness, I hadn't noticed that it was already past noon, the time this littlecrow usually came for its food.  

Florinda said, "That fellowis quite upset."  

She laughed at the bird'soutraged caws, then looked me in the eye and said, "You and the crow arequite alike. You get easily upset; and you're both quite loud aboutit."  

I could barely contain myselffrom blurting out that the same could be said about her.  

Florinda chuckled, as though sheknew the effort I was making not to weep.

The crow had perched on my emptyhand and stared at me sidelong with its shiny, pebblelike eyes.  

The bird opened its wings butdidn't fly away. Its black feathers sparkled blue in the sun.  

I calmly told Florinda that thepressures of the sorcerers' world were unbearable.  

"Nonsense!" she chided,as if she were talking to a spoiled child:

"Look, we scared Dionysusaway." Enraptured, Florinda watched the crow circle over our heads; thenshe fixed her attention back on me.  

I averted my face.  

I didn't know why, for there wasnothing unkind in the gaze of those shiny, dark eyes.  

Florinda's eyes were calm andutterly indifferent as she said, "If you can't catch up withIsidoreBaltazar, then I and the rest of the sorcerers who taught you would havefailed to impress you.  

"We would have failed tochallenge you.  

"It's not a final loss forus, but it certainly will be a final loss for you."  

Seeing that I was about to weepagain, she challenged me, "Where is your impeccable purpose? What happenedto all the things you've learned with us?"

"What if I never catch upwith IsidoreBaltazar?" I asked tearfully.

"Can you go on living in thesorcerers' world if you don't make an effort to find out?" she askedsharply.  

"This is a time when I needkindness," I mumbled, closing my eyes to prevent my tears from spilling."I need my mother. If I could only go to her."

I was surprised at my own words,yet I really meant them.  

Unable to hold back my tears anylonger I began to weep.  

Florinda laughed: She wasn't mockingme.  

There was a note of kindness, ofsympathy in her laughter.  

"You're so far away fromyour mother," she said softly, with a pensive, distant look in her eyes,"that you'll never find her again."

Her voice was but a soft whisperas she went on to say that the sorcerers' life builds impassable barriersaround us.  

Sorcerers, she reminded me, don'tfind solace in the sympathy of others or in self-pity.  

"You think that all mytorment is caused by self-pity, don't you, Florinda?"  

"No. Not just self-pity butmorbidity, too."

She put her arms around myshoulders and hugged me as if I were a small child.  

"Most women are damn morbid,you know," she murmured. "You and I are among them."  

I didn't agree with her, yet Ihad no desire to contradict her.  

I was far too happy with her armsaround me.  

In spite of my somber mood, I hadto smile. Florinda, like all the other women in the sorcerers' world, lackedthe facility to express maternal feelings. And although I liked to kiss and hugthe people I loved, I couldn't bear to be in someone's arms for more than aninstant. Florinda's embrace was not as warm and soothing as my mother's, but itwas all I could hope to get.  

Then she went into thehouse.  

I came suddenly awake.  

For a moment I simply lay there-on the ground at the foot of the fountain- trying to remember somethingFlorinda had said before I fell asleep in the leaf-spotted sunlight.  

I had obviously slept for hours.Although the sky was still bright, the evening shadows had already stolen intothe yard.  

I was about to look for Florindain the house when an unearthly sounding laughter echoed across the yard: It wasthe same laughter I had heard during the night.

I waited and listened.  

The silence around me wasunsettling. Nothing chirped; nothing hummed; nothing moved.  

Yet, still as it was, I couldsense noiseless footsteps, silent as shadows, behind me.  

I wheeled around. At the far edgeof the yard, almost concealed by the blooming bougainvillea, I saw somebodysitting on a wooden bench. Her back was turned to me, but I immediatelyrecognized her.  

"Zuleica?" I whispereduncertainly, afraid that the sound of my voice might scare her away.  

"How happy I am to see youagain," she said, beckoning me to sit beside her.  

Her deep, clear voice, vibrantwith the briskness of the desert air, didn't seem to come from her body butfrom far away.  

I wanted to embrace her, but Iknew better. Zuleica never liked to be touched, so I just sat beside her andtold her that I, too, was happy to see her again.  

To my utter surprise, she claspedmy hand in hers; a small, delicate hand.

Her pale, copperish-pink,beautiful face was oddly blank. All the life was concentrated in her incredibleeyes: neither black nor brown but strangely in between; and oddly clear.  

She fixed her eyes on me in aprolonged stare.  

"When did you gethere?" I asked.  

"Just this moment,"Zuleica replied, her lips curling into an angelic smile.  

"How did you get here? DidFlorinda come with you?"  

"Oh, you know," Zuleicasaid vaguely, "women sorcerers come and go unnoticed:  

"Nobody pays attention to awoman, especially if she's old.  

"Now, a beautiful youngwoman, on the other hand, attracts everybody's attention.  

"That's why women sorcerersshould always be disguised if they are handsome.  

"If they are averagelyhomely, they have nothing to worry about."

Zuleica's sudden light tap on myshoulder jolted me.  

She clasped my hand again, asthough to dispel my doubts, then gazed at me calmly and keenly and said,"To be in the sorcerers' world one has to dream superbly."  

She looked away.  

An almost full moon hung over thedistant mountains.  

"Most people don't have thewits nor the size of spirit to dream.  

"They cannot help but seethe world as ordinary and repetitious; and do you know why?" she asked,fixing me with her keen gaze:  

"Because if you don't fightto avoid it, the world is indeed ordinary and repetitious.

"Most people are so involvedwith themselves that they have become idiotic.

"Idiots have no desire tofight to avoid ordinariness and repetitiousness."  

Zuleica rose from the bench andput on her sandals.  

She tied her shawl around herwaist so her long skirt wouldn't drag, and walked to the middle of thepatio.  

I knew what she was going to dobefore she even started. She was going to spin. She was going to perform adance in order to gather cosmic energy. Women sorcerers believe that by movingtheir bodies they can get the strength necessary to dream.  

With a barely perceptible gestureof her chin, she motioned me to follow her and imitate her movements.  

She glided on the dark brownMexican tiles and brown bricks that had been laid out in an ancient Toltecpattern by IsidoreBaltazar; a sorceric design binding generations of sorcerersand dreamers throughout the ages in webs of secrets and feats of power- adesign into which he had put himself, around and inside it, with all hisstrength, all his intent, willing myth and dream into reality.  

Zuleica moved with the certaintyand agility of a young dancer.  

Her movements were simple, yetthey required so much speed, balance, and concentration that they left meexhausted.  

With uncanny agility andswiftness, she spun around, away from me.

For an instant she vacillatedamidst the shadows of the trees, as though to make sure I was followingher.  

Then she headed toward therecessed, arched doorway built into the wall encircling the grounds behind thehouse.  

She paused momentarily by the twocitrus trees growing outside the walls; the ones that stood like two sentrieson either side of the path leading to the small house across thechaparral.  

Afraid of losing sight of her, Idashed along the narrow, dark trail.  

Then, curious and eager, Ifollowed her inside the house, all the way to the back room.  

Instead of turning on the light,she reached for an oil lamp hanging from one of the rafters.  

She lit it. The lamp cast aflickering glow all around us but left the corners of the room in shadows.  

Kneeling in front of the onlypiece of furniture in the room; a wooden chest sitting under the window, shepulled out a mat and a blanket.  

"Lie down, on yourstomach," she said softly, spreading the mat on the tiled floor.  

I heaved a deep sigh and gave into a pleasant sense of helplessness as I lay, face down, on the mat.  

A feeling of peace and well-beingspread through my body.  

I felt her hands on my back: Shewasn't massaging me but tapping my back lightly.  

Although I had often been in thesmall house, I still didn't know how many rooms it had or how it wasfurnished.  

Florinda had once told me thatthat house was the center of their adventure.

It was there, she said, where theold nagual and his sorcerers wove their magic web.  

Like a spider's web, invisibleand resilient, it held them when they plunged into the unknown, into thedarkness and the light, as sorcerers do routinely.  

She had also said that the housewas a symbol.  

The sorcerers of her group didn'thave to be in the house or even in its vicinity when they plunged into theunknown through dreaming.  

Everywhere they went, theycarried the feeling; the mood of the house in their hearts.  

And that feeling and mood,whatever they were for each of them, gave them the strength to face theeveryday world with wonder and delight.  

Zuleica's sharp tap on myshoulder startled me. "Turn on your back," she commanded.  

I did so.  

Her face, as she bent down, wasradiant with energy and purpose.  

"Myths are dreams ofextraordinary dreamers," she said:  

"You need a great deal ofcourage and concentration in order to maintain them.  

"And above all, you need agreat deal of imagination.  

"You are living a myth, amyth that has been handed down to you for safekeeping."  

She spoke in a tone that wasalmost reverent. "You cannot be the recipient of this myth unless you areirreproachable.  

"If you are not, the mythwill simply move away from you."  

I opened my mouth to speak, tosay that I understood all that, but I saw the hardness in her eyes.  

She was not there to have a dialoguewith me.  

The repetitive sound of branchesbrushing against the wall outside died out and turned into a throb in the air;a pulsating sound that I felt rather than heard.

I was on the verge of fallingasleep when Zuleica said that I should follow the commands of the repetitivedream I had had.  

"How did you know I've beenhaving that dream?" I asked, alarmed, trying to sit up.  

"Don't you remember that weshare one another's dreams?" she whispered, pushing me back onto themat:  

"I'm the one who brings youdreams."  

"It was just a dream,Zuleica." My voice trembled because I was seized by a desperate desire toweep.  

I knew it wasn't just a dream,but I wanted her to lie to me.  

Shaking her head, she looked atme. "No. It wasn't just a dream," she said quietly. "It was asorcerers' dream, a vision."  

"What should Ido?"  

"Didn't the dream tell youwhat to do?" she asked in a challenging tone. "Didn'tFlorinda?"  

She watched me with aninscrutable expression on her face.  

Then she smiled, a shy, childlikesmile.  

"You have to understand thatyou cannot run after IsidoreBaltazar. He's no longer in the world.  

"There is nothing you cangive him or do for him anymore.  

"You cannot be attached tothe nagual as a person, but only as a mythical being."  

Her voice was soft yet commandingas she repeated that I was living a myth.

"The sorcerers' world is amythical world separated from the everyday one by a mysterious barrier made outof dreams and commitments.  

"Only if the nagual issupported and upheld by his fellow dreamers can he lead them into other viableworlds from which he can entice the bird of freedom."  

Her words faded in the shadows ofthe room as she added that the support IsidoreBaltazar needed was dreamingenergy, not worldly feelings and actions.

After a long silence, she spokeagain.  

"You have witnessed how theold nagual, as well as IsidoreBaltazar, by their mere presence, affect whoeveris around them; be it their fellow sorcerers or just bystanders; making themaware that the world is a mystery where nothing can be taken for granted underany circumstances."  

I nodded in agreement.  

For a long time I had been at aloss to understand how naguals could, by their mere presence, make such adifference.  

After careful observation,comparing opinions with others, and endless introspection, I concluded thattheir influence stemmed from their renunciation of worldly concerns.  

In our daily world, we also haveexamples of men and women who have left worldly concerns behind. We call themmystics, saints, religious people.  

But naguals are neither mysticsnor saints and are certainly not religious men.

Naguals are worldly men without ashred of worldly concerns.  

At a subliminal level, thiscontradiction has the most tremendous effect on whoever is around them.  

The minds of those who are arounda nagual can't grasp what is affecting them, yet they feel the impact in theirbodies as a strange anxiety, an urge to break loose, or as a sense ofinadequacy, as if something transcendental is taking place somewhere else, andthey can't get to it.  

But the naguals' built-incapacity to affect others doesn't only depend on their lack of worldly concernsor on the force of their personalities; but rather on the force of theirunreproachful behavior.  

Naguals are unreproachful [*unreproachful- not criticizing] in their actions and feelings; regardless ofthe ambushes- worldly or otherworldly- placed on their interminable path.  

It isn't that naguals follow aprescribed pattern of rules and regulations in order to have unreproachfulbehavior, for there are no rules and regulations.  

Rather, they use theirimaginations for adopting or adapting to whatever it takes to make theiractions fluid.  

For their deeds, naguals, unlikeaverage men, don't seek approval, respect, praise, or any kind ofacknowledgment from anyone, including their fellow sorcerers.  

All they seek is their own senseof flawlessness; of innocence, of integrity.

It is this that makes a nagual'scompany addictive.  

Others becomes dependent on hisfreedom as one would to a drug.  

To a nagual, the world is alwaysbrand new.  

In his company, one begins tolook at the world as if it had never happened before.  

"That's because naguals havebroken the mirror of self-reflection," Zuleica said, as if she hadfollowed my train of thoughts.  

"Naguals are able to seethemselves in the mirror of fog which reflects only the unknown.  

"It is a mirror that nolonger reflects our normal humanity expressed in repetition; but reveals theface of infinity.  

"Sorcerers believe that whenthe face of self-reflection and the face of infinity merge, a nagual is totallyready to break the boundaries of reality and disappear as though he wasn't madeof solid matter.  

"IsidoreBaltazar had beenready for a long time."  

"He can't leave mebehind!" I cried out. "That would be too unfair."  

"It's downright foolish tothink in terms of fairness and unfairness," Zuleica said:  

"In the sorcerers' world,there is only power.  

"Didn't every one of usteach you that?"  

"There are many things Ilearned," I conceded gloomily.  

After a few moments, I mumbledunder my breath, "But they are not worth anything at themoment."  

"They are worth the mostnow," she contradicted me:  

"If you have learned onething, it's that at the bleakest moments warriors rally their power to carryon. A warrior doesn't succumb to despair."

"Nothing of what I'velearned and experienced can alleviate my sadness and despair," I saidsoftly:  

"I've even tried the spiritualchants I learned from my nanny, and Florinda laughed at me. She thinks am anidiot."  

"Florinda is right,"Zuleica pronounced:  

"Our magical world hasnothing to do with chants and incantations; with rituals and bizarrebehavior.  

"Our magical world, which isa dream, is willed into being by the concentrated desire of those whoparticipate in it.  

"It is held intact at everymoment by the sorcerers' tenacious wills; the same way the everyday world isheld together by everybody's tenacious will."  

She stopped abruptly.  

She seemed to have caught herselfin the middle of a thought that she didn't wish to express.  

Then she smiled. Making ahumorous, helpless gesture, she added, "To dream our dream, you have to bedead."  

"Does that mean I have todrop dead right here and now?" I asked in a voice that was getting hoarse."You know that I am ready for that, at a drop of a hat."  

Zuleica's face lit up, and shelaughed as though I had told the best of jokes.

Seeing that I was as serious as Icould be, she hastened to clarify, "No, no.  

"To die means to cancel allyour holdings; to drop everything you have, everything you are."  

"That's nothing new," Isaid. "I did that the moment I joined your world."  

"Obviously you didn't.Otherwise you wouldn't be in such a mess.

"If you had died the waysorcery demands, you would feel no anguish now."  

"What would I feel,then?"  

"Duty!Purpose!"

"My anguish has nothing todo with my sense of purpose," I shouted. "It's apart, independent. Iam alive and feel sadness and love. How can I avoid that?"  

Zuleica clarified, "You'renot supposed to avoid it, but to overcome it.

"If warriors have nothing,they feel nothing."  

"What kind of an empty worldis that?" I asked defiantly.  

"Empty is the world of indulging,because indulging cuts off everything else except indulging."  

She gazed at me eagerly, as ifexpecting me to agree with her statement. "So it's a lopsided world;boring, repetitious.  

"For sorcerers, the antidoteof indulging is dying. And they don't just think about it, they doit."  

A cold shiver went up myback.  

I swallowed and remained silent,looking at the splendid sight of the moon shining through the window.  

"I really don't understandwhat you're saying, Zuleica."  

"You understand me perfectlywell," she maintained. "Your dream began when you met me.  

"Now it's time for anotherdream. But this time, dream dead. Your error was to dream alive."  

"What does that mean?"I asked restlessly:  

"Don't torment me withriddles. You, yourself, told me that only male sorcerers drive themselves nutswith riddles. You're doing the same to me now."  

Zuleica's laughter echoed fromwall to wall. It rustled like dry leaves pushed by the wind.  

"To dream alive means tohave hope. It means that you hold on to your dream for dear life.  

"To dream dead means thatyou dream without hope. You dream without holding on to your dream."  

Not trusting myself to speak, allI could do was to nod.  

Florinda had told me that freedomis a total absence of concern about oneself; a lack of concern achieved whenthe imprisoned bulk of energy within ourselves is untied.  

She had said that this energy isreleased only when we can arrest the exalted conception we have of ourselves;of our importance; an importance we feel must not be violated or mocked.  

Zuleica's voice was clear butseemed to come from a great distance as she added, "The price of freedomis very high.  

"Freedom can only beattained by dreaming without hope; by being willing to lose all, even the dream.  

"For some of us, to dreamwithout hope; to struggle with no goal in mind, is the only way to keep up withthe bird of freedom."