Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Creator of El Topo

“Huapancingo or Huanotzcan — I don’t remember exactly. But stop worrying. All problems are mental illusions. Give yourself to the reality of this moment. We are only a short distance away from something incredible, whether it’s a thousand or ten thousand steps from here. Let’s go!”

We had been walking for four hours. The sun was beating down more and more harshly and the caresses of the wind had become like knives, cracking our lips. My dry, hard shoes tortured my feet. Reyna walked like a zombie, murmuring mathematical exercises. I sat down on a fallen tree trunk. I had to shout for her to come out of her trance and stop.

“Somebody gave you bad directions. This road doesn’t go anywhere. We’d best turn back now.”

“O man of little faith! Accept the here and now and stop thinking about the future. Free yourself from the domination of your mind; use the pain in your feet to awaken your consciousness of being and the miracle will happen. Let us go on!”

“Out of the question. Go on if you want to. I’m going back. Your madness is not my madness.”

I got up, and with a sudden irrepressible rage, I kicked at the tree trunk. Part of the bark flew off and a swarm of small black spiders surged out. I jumped back in alarm and beat a retreat.

Reyna came up next to me, laughing. “Coward! It is your resistance that produces failure. If you lack fervor, you will miss the incredible transformation.”

“This road is very long and it passes only through fields of alfalfa. Perhaps I can be of help to you?”

The voice of the old man resonated in our ears with a friendly seriousness. We had not noticed him come up. Probably he had been resting in the shade of a tree nearby. His deep-set eyes surrounded by many wrinkles and his pupils barely visible within cataracts made us think he might be blind.

Anxiously, Reyna asked him: “Do you know a curandero named. .”

“. . Prudencio Garza?” he interrupted her. “I am he, my dear girl. The wind blew me the fragments of your shadows, so I came down here to wait for you. Follow me.”

We crossed through a pine forest on a winding path between hills, which finally brought us to a small valley. Near a black boulder covered with grass there was a cabin. Its door was framed with vultures’ beaks. Not far away, three goats made awkward movements: each had one hind leg tied to those of the others goats. A black dog gnawed at the remains of an iguana, and a pig was snuggling its belly comfortably into a freshly dug hollow in a humid patch of ground.

The dog dropped its prey at our approach and circled around Reyna, emitting ear-splitting barks. It stood up on its hind legs and put its paws on her chest. Fearlessly, she stroked its head.

“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.