The Power of Silence (18 page)

When she
cut the body open with a kitchen knife and removed the internal organs it was
not, don Juan had stressed, sleight of hand. These were bona fide events,
which, by virtue of taking place in heightened awareness, were outside the
realm of everyday judgment.

I had asked
don Juan how the healer could manage to move the assemblage points of those
people without touching them. His reply had been that the healer's power, a
gift or a stupendous accomplishment, was to serve as a conduit for the spirit.
It was the spirit, he had said, and not the healer, which had moved those
assemblage points.

"I
explained to you then, although you didn't understand a word of it," don
Juan went on, "that the healer's art and power was to remove doubts from
the minds of those present. By doing this, she was able to allow the spirit to
move their assemblage points. Once those points had moved, everything was
possible. They had entered into the realm where miracles are commonplace."

He asserted
emphatically that the healer must also have been a sorceress, and that if I
made an effort to remember the operation, I would remember that she had been
ruthless with the people around her, especially the patient.

I repeated
to him what I could recall of the session. The pitch and tone of the healer's
flat, feminine voice changed dramatically when she entered a trance into a
raspy, deep, male voice. That voice announced that the spirit of a warrior of
pre-Columbian antiquity had possessed the healer's body. Once the announcement
was made, the healer's attitude changed dramatically. She was possessed. She
was obviously absolutely sure of herself, and she proceeded to operate with
total certainty and firmness.

"I
prefer the word "ruthlessness" to "certainty" and
"firmness"," don Juan commented, then
continued. "That healer had to be ruthless to create the proper setting
for the spirit's intervention."

He asserted
that events difficult to explain, such as that operation, were really very
simple. They were made difficult by our insistence upon thinking. If we did not
think, everything fit into place.

"That
is truly absurd, don Juan," I said and really meant it.

I reminded
him that he demanded serious thinking of all his apprentices, and even
criticized his own teacher for not being a good thinker.

"Of
course I insist that everyone around me think clearly," he said. "And
I explain, to anyone who wants to listen, that the only way to think clearly is
to not think at all. I was convinced you understood this sorcerers'
contradiction."

In a loud
voice I protested the obscurity of his statements. He laughed and made fun of
my compulsion to defend myself. Then he explained again that for a sorcerer
there were two types of thinking. One was average day-today thinking, which was
ruled by the normal position of his assemblage point. It was muddled thinking
that did not really answer his needs and left great murkiness in his head. The
other was precise thinking. It was functional, economical, and left very few
things unexplained. Don Juan remarked that for this type of thinking to prevail
the assemblage point had to move. Or at least the day-to-day type thinking had
to stop to allow the assemblage point to shift. Thus the apparent
contradiction, which was really no contradiction at all.

"I
want you to recall something you have done in the past," he said. "I
want you to recall a special movement of your assemblage point. And to do this,
you have to stop thinking the way you normally think. Then the other, the type
I call clear thinking, will take over and make you recollect."

"But
how do I stop thinking?" I asked, although I knew what he was going to
reply.

"By
intending the movement of your assemblage point," he said. "Intent is
beckoned with the eyes."

I told don
Juan that my mind was shifting back and forth between moments of tremendous
lucidity, when everything was crystal clear, and lapses into profound mental
fatigue during which I could not understand what he was saying. He tried to put
me at ease, explaining that my instability was caused by a slight fluctuation
of my assemblage point, which had not stabilized in the new position it had
reached some years earlier. The fluctuation was the result of left-over
feelings of self-pity.

"What
new position is that, don Juan?" I asked.

"Years
ago - and this is what I want you to recollect - your assemblage point reached
the place of no pity," he replied.

"I beg
your pardon?" I said.

"The
place of no pity is the site of ruthlessness," he said. "But you know
all this. For the time being, though, until you recollect, let's say that
ruthlessness, being a specific position of the assemblage point, is shown in
the eyes of sorcerers. It's like a shimmering film over the eyes. The eyes of
sorcerers are brilliant. The greater the shine, the more ruthless the sorcerer
is. At this moment, your eyes are dull."

He
explained that when the assemblage point moved to the place of no pity, the
eyes began to shine. The firmer the grip of the assemblage point on its new
position, the more the eyes shone.

"Try
to recall what you already know about this," he urged me. He kept quiet
for a moment, then spoke without looking at me.

"
Recollecting
is not the same as remembering," he continued. "Remembering is
dictated by the day-to-day type of thinking, while
recollecting
is
dictated by the movement of the assemblage point. A recapitulation of their
lives, which sorcerers do, is the key to moving their assemblage points.
Sorcerers start their recapitulation by thinking, by remembering the most
important acts of their lives. From merely thinking about them they then move
on to actually being at the site of the event. When they can do that - be at
the site of the event - they have successfully shifted their assemblage point
to the precise spot it was when the event took place. Bringing back the total
event by means of shifting the assemblage point is known as sorcerers'
recollection."

He stared
at me for an instant as if trying to make sure I was listening.

"Our
assemblage points are constantly shifting," he explained,
"imperceptible shifts. Sorcerers believe that in order to make their
assemblage points shift to precise spots we must engage intent. Since there is
no way of knowing what intent is, sorcerers let their eyes beckon it."

"All
this is truly incomprehensible to me," I said.

Don Juan
put his hands behind his head and lay down on the ground. I did the same. We
remained quiet for a long time. The wind scudded the clouds. Their movement
almost made me feel dizzy. And the dizziness changed abruptly into a familiar
sense of anguish.

Every time
I was with don Juan, I felt, especially in moments of rest and quiet, an
overwhelming sensation of despair - a longing for something I could not
describe. When I was alone, or with other people, I was never a victim of this
feeling. Don Juan had explained that what I felt and interpreted as longing was
in fact the sudden movement of my assemblage point.

When don
Juan started to speak, all of a sudden the sound of his voice jolted me and I
sat up.

"You
must recollect the first time your eyes shone," he said, "because
that was the first time your assemblage point reached the place of no pity.
Ruthlessness possessed you then. Ruthlessness makes sorcerers' eyes shine, and
that shine beckons intent. Each spot to which their assemblage points move is
indicated by a specific shine of their eyes. Since their eyes have their own
memory, they can call up the recollection of any spot by calling up the
specific shine associated with that spot."

He
explained that the reason sorcerers put so much emphasis on the shine of their
eyes and on their gaze is because the eyes are directly connected to intent.
Contradictory as it might sound, the truth is that the eyes are only
superficially connected to the world of everyday life. Their deeper connection
is to the abstract. I could not conceive how my eyes could store that sort of
information, and I said as much. Don Juan's reply was that man's possibilities
are so vast and mysterious that sorcerers, rather than thinking about them, had
chosen to explore them, with no hope of ever understanding them.

I asked him
if an average man's eyes were also affected by intent.

"Of
course!" he exclaimed. "You know all this. But you know it at such a
deep level that it is silent knowledge. You haven't sufficient energy to
explain it, even to yourself.

"The
average man knows the same thing about his eyes, but he has even less energy
than you. The only advantages sorcerers may have over average men is that they
have stored their energy, which means a more precise, clearer connecting link
with intent. Naturally, it also means they can recollect at will, using the
shine of their eyes to move their assemblage points."

Don Juan
stopped talking and fixed me with his gaze. I clearly felt his eyes guiding,
pushing and pulling something indefinite in me. I could not break away from his
stare. His concentration was so intense it actually caused a physical sensation
in me: I felt as if I were inside a furnace. And, quite abruptly, I was looking
inward. It was a sensation very much like being in an absentminded reverie, but
with the strange accompanying sensation of an intense awareness of myself and
an absence of thoughts. Supremely aware, I was looking inward, into
nothingness.

With a
gigantic effort, I pulled myself out of it and stood up.

"What
did you do to me, don Juan?"

"Sometimes
you are absolutely unbearable," he said. "Your wastefulness is
infuriating. Your assemblage point was just in the most advantageous spot to
recollect anything you wanted, and what did you do? You let it all go, to ask
me what I did to you."

He kept
silent for a moment, and then smiled as I sat down again.

"But
being annoying is really your greatest asset," he added. "So why
should I complain?" Both of us broke into a loud laugh. It was a private
joke.

Years
before, I had been both very moved and very confused by don Juan's tremendous
dedication to helping me. I could not imagine why he should show me such
kindness. It was evident that he did not need me in any way in his life. He was
obviously not investing in me. But I had learned, through life's painful
experiences, that nothing was free; and being unable to foresee what don Juan's
reward would be made me tremendously uneasy.

One day I
asked don Juan point-blank, in a very cynical tone, what he was getting out of
our association. I said that I had not been able to guess.

"Nothing
you would understand," he replied.

His answer
annoyed me. Belligerently I told him I was not stupid, and he could at least
try to explain it to me.

"Well,
let me just say that, although you could understand it, you are certainly not
going to
like it," he said with the smile he always had when he was setting me up.
"You see, I really want to spare you."

I was
hooked, and I insisted that he tell me what he meant.

"Are
you sure you want to hear the truth?" he asked, knowing I could never say
no, even if my life depended on it.

"Of
course I want to hear whatever it is you're dangling in front of me," I
said cuttingly. He started to laugh as if at a big joke; the more he laughed,
the greater my annoyance. "I don't see what's so funny," I said.

"Sometimes
the underlying truth shouldn't be tampered with," he said. "The
underlying truth here is like a block at the bottom of a big pile of things, a
cornerstone. If we take a hard look at the bottom block, we might not like the
results. I prefer to avoid that."

He laughed
again. His eyes, shining with mischievousness, seemed to invite me to pursue
the subject further. And I insisted again that I had to know what he was
talking about. I tried to sound calm but persistent.

"Well,
if that is what you want," he said with the air of one who had been
overwhelmed by the request. "First of all, I'd like to say that everything
I do for you is free. You don't have to pay for it. As you know, I've been
impeccable with you. And as you also know, my impeccability with you is not an
investment. I am not grooming you to take care of me when I am too feeble to
look after myself. But I do get something of incalculable value out of our
association, a sort of reward for dealing impeccably with that bottom block
I've mentioned. And what I get is the very thing you are perhaps not going to
understand or like."

He stopped
and peered at me, with a devilish glint in his eyes.

"Tell
me about it, don Juan!" I exclaimed, irritated with his delaying tactics.

"I
want you to bear in mind that I am telling you at your insistence," he
said, still smiling. He paused again. By then I was fuming.

"If
you judge me by my actions with you," he said, "you would have to
admit that I have been a paragon of patience and consistency. But what you don't
know is that to accomplish this I have had to fight for impeccability as I have
never fought before. In order to spend time with you, I have had to transform
myself daily, restraining myself with the most excruciating effort."