The Power of Silence (33 page)

I insisted
that valuable as the lesson might have been, it still appeared to me that the
nagual Julian's methods were bizarre and excessive. I admitted to don Juan that
everything I had heard about the nagual Julian had bothered me I so much I had
formed a most negative picture of him.

"I
think you're afraid that one of these days I'm going to | throw you into the
river or make you wear women's clothes," he said and began to laugh.
"That's why you don't approve of the nagual Julian."

I admitted
that he was right, and he assured me that he had no intentions of imitating his
benefactor's methods, because they did not work for him. He was, he said, as
ruthless but not as practical as the nagual Julian.

"At
that time," don Juan continued, "I didn't appreciate his art, and I
certainly didn't like what he did to me, but now, whenever I think about it, I
admire him all the more for his superb and direct way of placing me in the
position of silent knowledge."

Don Juan
said that because of the enormity of his experience, he had totally forgotten
the monstrous man. He walked unescorted almost to the door of the nagual
Julian's house, then changed his mind and went instead to the nagual Elias's
place, seeking solace. And the nagual Elias explained to him the deep
consistency of the nagual Julian's actions.

The nagual
Elias could hardly contain his excitement when he heard don Juan's story. In a
fervent tone he explained to don Juan that his benefactor was a supreme
stalker, always after practicalities. His endless quest was for pragmatic views
and solutions. His behavior that day at the river had been a masterpiece of
stalking. He had manipulated and affected everyone. Even the river seemed to be
at his command.

The nagual
Elias maintained that while don Juan was being carried by the current, fighting
for his life, the river helped him understand what the spirit was. And thanks
to that understanding, don Juan had the opportunity to enter directly into
silent knowledge.

Don Juan
said that because he was a callow youth he listened to the nagual Elias without
understanding a word, but was moved with sincere admiration for the nagual's
intensity.

First, the
nagual Elias explained to don Juan that sound and the meaning of words were of
supreme importance to stalkers. Words were used by them as keys to open
anything that was closed. Stalkers, therefore, had to state their aim before
attempting to achieve it. But they could not reveal their true aim at the
outset, so they had to word things carefully to conceal the main thrust.

The nagual
Elias called this act waking up intent. He explained to don Juan that the
nagual Julian woke up intent by affirming emphatically in front of his entire
household that he was going to show don Juan, in one stroke, what the spirit
was and how to define it. This was completely nonsensical because the nagual
Julian knew there was no way to define the spirit. What he was really trying to
do was, of course, to place don Juan in the position of silent knowledge.

After
making the statement which concealed his true aim, the nagual Julian gathered
as many people as he could, thus making them both his witting and unwitting
accomplices. All of them knew about his stated goal, but not a single one knew
what he really had in mind.

The nagual
Elias's belief that his explanation would shake don Juan out of his impossible
stand of total rebelliousness and indifference was completely wrong. Yet the
nagual patiently continued to explain to him that while he had been fighting
the current in the river he had reached the third point.

The old nagual
explained that the position of silent knowledge was called the third point
because in order to get to it one had to pass the second point, the place of no
pity.

He said
that don Juan's assemblage point had acquired sufficient fluidity for him to be
double, which had allowed him to be in both the place of reason and in the
place of silent knowledge, either alternately or at the same time.

The nagual
told don Juan that his accomplishment was magnificent. He even hugged don Juan
as if he were a child. And he could not stop talking about how don Juan, in
spite of not knowing anything - or maybe because of not knowing anything - had
transferred his total energy from one place to the other. Which meant to the
nagual that don Juan's assemblage point had a most propitious, natural
fluidity.

He said to
don Juan that every human being had a capacity for that fluidity. For most of
us, however, it was stored away and we never used it, except on rare occasions
which were brought about by sorcerers, such as the experience he had just had,
or by dramatic natural circumstances, such as a life-or-death struggle.

Don Juan
listened, mesmerized by the sound of the old nagual's voice. When he paid
attention, he could follow anything the man said, which was something he had never
been able to do with the nagual Julian.

The old
nagual went on to explain that humanity was on the first point, reason, but
that not every human being's assemblage point was squarely on the position of
reason. Those who were on the spot itself were the true leaders of mankind.
Most of the time they were unknown people whose genius was the exercising of
their reason.

The nagual
said there had been another time, when mankind had been on the third point,
which, of course, had been the first point then. But after that, mankind moved
to the place of reason.

When silent
knowledge was the first point the same condition prevailed. Not every human
being's assemblage point was squarely on that position either. This meant that
the true leaders of mankind had always been the few human beings whose
assemblage points happened to be either on the exact point of reason or of
silent knowledge. The rest of humanity, the old nagual told don Juan, was
merely the audience. In our day, they were the lovers of reason. In the past,
they had been the lovers of silent knowledge. They were the ones who had
admired and sung odes to the heroes of either position.

The nagual
stated that mankind had spent the longer part of its history in the position of
silent knowledge, and that this explained our great longing for it.

Don Juan
asked the old nagual what exactly the nagual Julian was doing to him. His
question sounded more mature and intelligent than what he really meant. The
nagual Elias answered it in terms totally unintelligible to don Juan at that
time. He said that the nagual Julian was coaching don Juan, enticing his
assemblage point to the position of reason, so he could be a thinker rather
than merely part of an unsophisticated but emotionally charged audience that
loved the orderly works of reason. At the same time, the nagual was coaching
don Juan to be a true abstract sorcerer instead of merely part of a morbid and
ignorant audience of lovers of the unknown.

The nagual
Elias assured don Juan that only a human being who was a paragon of reason
could move his assemblage point easily and be a paragon of silent knowledge. He
said that only those who were squarely in either position could see the other
position clearly, and that that had been the way the age of reason came to being.
The position of reason was clearly seen from the position of silent knowledge.

The old
nagual told don Juan that the one-way bridge from silent knowledge to reason
was
called "concern." That is, the concern that true men of silent
knowledge had about the source of what they knew. And the other one-way bridge,
from reason to silent knowledge, was called "pure understanding."
That is, the recognition that told the man of reason that reason was only one
island in an endless sea of islands.

The nagual
added that a human being who had both oneway bridges working was a sorcerer in
direct contact with the spirit, the vital force that made both positions
possible. He pointed oat to don Juan that everything the nagual Julian had done
that day at the river had been a show, not for a human audience, but for the
spirit, the force that was watching him. He pranced and frolicked with abandon
and entertained everybody, especially the power he was addressing.

Don Juan
said that the nagual Elias assured him that the spirit only listened when the
speaker speaks in gestures. And gestures do not mean signs or body movements,
but acts of true abandon, acts of largesse, of humor. As a gesture for the
spirit, sorcerers bring out the best of themselves and silently offer it to the
abstract.

Don Juan
wanted us to make one more trip to the mountains before I went home, but we
never made it. Instead, he asked me to drive him to the city. He needed to see
some people there.

On the way
he talked about every subject but intent. It was a welcome respite.

In the
afternoon, after he had taken care of his business, we sat on his favorite
bench in the plaza. The place was deserted. I was very tired and sleepy. But
then, quite unexpectedly, I perked up. My mind became crystal clear.

Don Juan
immediately noticed the change and laughed at my gesture of surprise. He picked
a thought right out of my mind; or perhaps it was I who picked that thought out
of his.

"If
you think about life in terms of hours instead of years, our lives are
immensely long," he said. "Even if you think in terms of days, life
is still interminable."

That was
exactly what I had been thinking.

He told me
that sorcerers counted their lives in hours, and that in one hour it was
possible for a sorcerer to live the equivalent in intensity of a normal life.
This intensity is an advantage when it comes to storing information in the
movement of the assemblage point.

I demanded
that he explain this to me in more detail. A long time before, because it was
so cumbersome to take notes on conversations, he had recommended that I keep
all the information I obtained about the sorcerers' world neatly arranged, not
on paper nor in my mind, but in the movement of my assemblage point.

"The
assemblage point, with even the most minute shifting, creates totally isolated
islands of perception," don Juan said. "Information, in the form of
experiences in the complexity of awareness can be stored there."

"But
how can information be stored in something so vague?" I asked.

"The
mind is equally vague, and still you trust it because you are familiar with
it," he retorted. "You don't yet have the same familiarity with the
movement of the assemblage point, but it is just about the same."

"What
I mean is, how is information stored?" I insisted.

"The
information is stored in the experience itself," he explained.
"Later, when a sorcerer moves his assemblage point to the exact spot where
it was, he relives the total experience. This sorcerers' recollection is the
way to get back all the information stored in the movement of die assemblage
point.

"Intensity
is an automatic result of the movement of the assemblage point," he
continued. "For instance, you are living these moments more intensely than
you ordinarily would, so, properly speaking, you are storing intensity. Some
day you'll relive this moment by making your assemblage point return to the
precise spot where it is now. That is the way sorcerers store
information."

I told don
Juan that the intense recollections I had had in the past few days had just
happened to me, without any special mental process I was aware of.

"How
can one deliberately manage to recollect?" I asked.

"Intensity,
being an aspect of intent, is connected naturally to the shine of the
sorcerers' eyes," he explained. "In order to recall those isolated
islands of perception sorcerers need only intend the particular shine of their
eyes associated with whichever spot they want to return to. But I have already
explained that."

I must have
looked perplexed. Don Juan regarded me with a serious expression. I opened my
mouth two or three times to ask him questions, but could not formulate my
thoughts.

"Because
his intensity rate is greater than normal," don Juan said, "in a few
hours a sorcerer can live the equivalent of a normal lifetime. His assemblage
point, by shifting to an unfamiliar position, takes in more energy than usual.
That extra flow of energy is called intensity."

I
understood what he was saying with perfect clarity, and my rationality
staggered under the impact of the tremendous implication.

Don Juan
fixed me with his stare and then warned me to beware of a reaction which
typically afflicted sorcerers - a frustrating desire to explain the sorcery
experience in cogent, well-reasoned terms.

"The
sorcerers' experience is so outlandish," don Juan went on, "that
sorcerers consider it an intellectual exercise, and use it to stalk themselves
with. Their trump card as stalkers, though, is that they remain keenly aware
that we are perceivers and that perception has more possibilities than the mind
can conceive."

As my only
comment I voiced my apprehension about the outlandish possibilities of human
awareness.

"In
order to protect themselves from that immensity," don Juan said,
"sorcerers learn to maintain a perfect blend of ruthlessness, cunning,
patience, and sweetness. These four bases are inextricably bound together.
Sorcerers cultivate them by intending them. These bases are, naturally,
positions of the assemblage point."