“Calm down, Mictiani. Let the lady alone.”
Obediently, the dog moved several yards away, but it still stared at Reyna with eyes full of love.
“Welcome to my humble abode, and please make yourselves at home.”
The interior was divided into living room and kitchen by a fragile wall made of old cardboard. In the center of the living room, under a lantern hanging from the smoky ceiling, there was an altar with a plaster statue of Santa Muerte (St. Death), a skeleton covered with a cloak like that of the Virgin of Guadalupe. There were also some yellow flowers, a small box of cigarettes made of dark tobacco, a bottle of strong liqueur, four stoneware cups full of corn beer, thirteen black candles, and some human bones. Among them was a brilliant, silver-plated gourd cut in a circular fashion to make a kind of coffer.
The curandero made Mictiani lie down at the doorstep, offered me a small bench several feet away from the altar, and invited Reyna to sit on the rug woven of palm branches.
“Sit in front of me, my girl. I perceive that you have decided to visit the land of the dead. It is not an easy thing. The mushrooms will bring you death for three days. You will wander in the four petals of the flower of shadows. In the eastern one, a thousand vultures will devour your flesh and bones down to a dark residue. In the northern one, a boiling river will eat away your memory. In the western one, hordes of the dead will empty your soul. In the southern petal, gluttonous goddesses will devour what remains of you: your vision. If you can withstand all this, you will arrive at the center as one who is blind. In that place, inner and outer are the same. There, you will meet Talocan, your inner God. If you are worthy of him, he will cause you to be reborn. If he considers you unworthy, you will not come back to life. Did you notice the pit I dug when you arrived here? It was for you in case you do not come back to life.
“As for you,” he said, addressing me, “because you came here as her protector, you are allowed to stay — but on one condition: that you remain absolutely silent. If you say so much as one word, your friend will wake up as a demon and drink your blood.”
I was frightened. I felt like running out of that place, forgetting Reyna and the sorcerer forever. Yet, whether through pride or curiosity, I accepted this trial, telling myself that Reyna could not become a vampire nor could this friendly old man really be a murderer. Probably, the poor fellow was just trying to earn a few dollars by taking advantage of a tourist’s desire for exotic experiences.
I made a sign that I agreed to the conditions. Don Prudencio had Reyna undress and lie down on the mat. She did so without the slightest embarrassment.
Then, to our great surprise, don Prudencio seemed to become an entirely different person. No longer was he a bent, humble old man with cataracts. The elder man seemed to dissolve as his back straightened. His movements became elegant and feline as he put on a woolen cape embroidered with Aztec designs. He brandished a green obsidian dagger as he lit three black candles and recited a prayer to Santa Muerte.
“Santa Muerte, because you were created by divine commandment in order to renew life, please have the kindness to rid the soul and body of this poor woman of all trace of suffering, shame, anguish, and fear, which come from the cruel treatments she received as a child.
“Santa Muerte, may the heavenly scythe that you wield cut the roots of bitterness, pain, anguish, despair, resentment, sadness, loneliness, confusion, and other afflictions caused by the venom that has been poured into the mind of this poor woman. Through you, may she thus be allowed to know the one who sees all and can do all.”
With the assurance of a high priest, he opened the silver gourd and took out a patty of cow manure upon which were growing about forty mushrooms crowded together. They were white and looked like tiny phalluses. The energy that radiated from these fungi seemed to fill the entire room. With his green dagger, the sorcerer cut them patiently, one by one, placing each mushroom into Reyna’s mouth. When she had swallowed the last one, she began to sweat and tremble. A few minutes later, she vomited. The sorcerer examined her vomit, counting the mushrooms there.
“The body knows its own measure. It has rejected only six of these little children. She is a strong woman — she has kept the largest possible number in her stomach.”
He kneeled before the altar and recited praises before the plaster statue as Reyna became more and more pale and lethargic.
“Praise to you, Santa Muerte, for your divine beauty is God’s reward to the just. Praise to you, Santa Muerte, for without your help, human beings could never free themselves of their pride. Praise to you, Santa Muerte, for your perfection is like that of the life that God has you renew.”
The curandero continued reciting prayers and praises until very late into the night. Reyna seemed like a wax statue. Flies buzzed around her, and it seemed that she would never breathe again. I was uncomfortable and trembling from a cold that was not so much from the temperature as from anxiety. Hypnotized by the droning voice of the sorcerer, I finally fell asleep.
Near dawn, I was awakened by the raucous calls of a flock of vultures. Reyna was still dead. The sorcerer was outside, shouting imprecations. I stood up with difficulty and walked out of the cabin with cramped legs. Don Prudencio had a big stick with which he was striking at the vultures who were swarming over the dead body of his dog, Mictiani. The animal’s eye sockets were empty, bloody pits. Its guts were spilling out on the ground. Finally, the blows of the stick prevailed, and all the vultures flew away.
“No, it wasn’t these devil’s messengers who killed him. He let himself die. Help me put him in the grave.”
He was a big dog. The curandero grabbed him by the neck, I seized his back paws, and we tossed him into the pit. Little by little, he covered the dog with the dirt piled up at its side, talking to him.
“I never imagined I was digging this grave for you, my brother. You are so good that you decided to die for the foreign visitor. In the after-world, you will protect her soul. Praise to you! You have sacrificed your own happiness in order to lessen the suffering of the foreigner. Praise to you! You have given everything in exchange for nothing!”
Taking a deep breath, he chanted a final “Amen,” which seemed to last interminably.
He looked at me, smiling, but his eyes were sad. I saw his cataracts reappear. His back bent slowly until he had once more become the kind old man instead of the formidable sorcerer.
“Thanks to Mictiani, your friend is no longer in danger. Yesterday, she passed through two petals. Today, she will pass through the last two. Early tomorrow morning, she will arrive at the center of the flower and come back to life.
“Look — somewhere over that way, I have some tortillas, goat cheese, and many prickly pears. Have something to eat — but quietly.”
That night was very long. Don Prudencio knelt before the altar again, chanting his interminable series of prayers to Santa Muerte. Lying on the floor, Reyna was still not breathing and her skin was terrifyingly white. I also lay on the floor, my head against the little bench. I wanted to sleep, but no matter how I tried to empty my mind, a river of words flooded it. I thought I had solved the koan known as stepping into the abyss; I thought I had realized what the Chinese monk Dazu*25 was speaking of in the poem he wrote on the day of his death:
El Topo reawakens under the mountain. From El Topo.
One of the four masters before his duel with El Topo. From El Topo.
El Topo confronts the colonel. From the Jodorowsky film El Topo.