A Nation of Mystics

by Pamela Johnson

  Mana appeared, the way he always did—quietly, from nowhere. He smiled, and Jerry heard his words, although Mana had not used his voice.

  Now you understand. Now you know what even our children know. Now your questions are answered.

  I flew. Jerry’s thoughts touched him.

  I know. Mana answered without speaking.

  I saw my death and my life.

  I know.

  We speak together without speaking.

  This is what is real.

  Mana turned to enter the forest, Jerry behind him, walking slowly. Things were clear in the darkness, things he had never noticed before; the forest was in balance, and at last, he was in balance with it.

  Wet but not cold, Jerry sat by the fire with his human company. Morning was dawning, the birdsong increased, the sky lightened. He had journeyed far and for many hours.

  I have returned, Jerry told Dr. Miller with his mind voice.

  I was not worried came the silent reply.

  At first, Jerry was only aware of brightness. He opened his eyes, closed them quickly, turned his head, and groaned. Midday. Slowly, he sat up, stretched, and looked over his naked body, half expecting to see feathers. No scratches or cuts touched him; not even his feet had suffered from running through the jungle all night.

  Barry walked over. “How’s it going this morning?”

  “Uh … fine,” he answered.

  “I was concerned when you left last night. So much was happening, it was difficult to record.”

  “I can imagine. I was flying from one place to another.”

  “You mean you thought you were flying.”

  “No. I flew.”

  “Well, you certainly flew from here. Fast. Right into the jungle as if you were following a simple path.”

  “I was on a path.”

  “Then only you could see it. And Mana. He followed you.”

  “Jerry,” Dr. Miller came to sit beside him, “did we talk last night? Without speaking?”

  “Yes,” Jerry answered, remembering. “Yes, we did.”

  “Could the vine actually give its user telepathic powers?”

  “Did you fly?” Jerry asked, trying to find words to grasp at all the questions he had.

  “I spent the night talking with people and creatures,” Dr. Miller answered. “The jaguar. Bird-headed men. Each had a story for me. At the end, they began to argue over who would lead me to other worlds. The next I remember is waking up.” He looked toward the shaman. “I would like to see those other places.”

  Jerry took the cup of beer Mana offered, and when he looked in Mana’s eyes, complete understanding passed between them.

  “I thought I was beginning to understand what it meant to be a member of the tribe,” he murmured. “Now, I know we haven’t even touched the surface. In this society, the vine teaches every man to be a shaman. Each man takes responsibility for his own healing and knowledge, and it starts at birth.”

  “I have a feeling, Jerry, that the teachers we met last night in our visions will take us to the places Mana has been. But you’re right. We’re just beginning to learn.”

  Jerry turned to him with some concern. “We’ll be leaving here soon. Will we have time to learn?”

  “We have a good start,” Dr. Miller said quietly. “The question now is how we’ll be able to explain this experience. How will we be able to describe to the ethnocentric mentality of our colleagues that traditional peoples know the patterns of the universe? That modern, technological man has to peel back mental layer from layer to touch this truth? How do we explain that we haven’t begun to touch the potential of the mind?”

  In the days that followed, Jerry followed Mana easily, rapidly, through the jungle. Mana had ceremoniously given him a blowgun, the gift of a father to a son, because Mana knew what the others did not—that Jerry had walked beneath the sacred waterfall. As Mana continued to teach him to hunt and to learn the forest, as Jerry began to speak the tribal language more often than English, Barry finally came to him one afternoon to have a serious conversation. “Jerry, you’re going native. You’re losing your objectivity.”

  “But, it’s the right thing to do.” Jerry held up his hands in a gesture that confessed his sincerity.

  Jerry had found the same thing true of the ayahuasca as he had found of the African iboga. His life had become a series of logical, correct actions. His consideration was increased, as was his compassion. The source was intellectual. Acts made perfect sense if they were performed in a certain way. The foundation of his thinking had shifted.

  Toward the end of January, the four bearers returned, and the men started to pack an enormous collection of plants and copious notes, film, photographic materials, and personal items. Two machetes that were no longer needed were given to the women of the compound. A hunting rifle was presented to Mana.

  On those last days, Jerry was wrenched in two. The thought occurred to him to stay, to continue to learn, but if he did so, all he knew, all that was familiar, would be gone. On the morning of his departure, surveying this now familiar world, he finally understood his reluctance to leave. Mana was not only shaman to him, but also father, and he did not want to lose another father.

  When Luis and the bearers picked up the packs to begin the homeward trek, a last cup of beer was passed, and emotional farewells were exchanged. Mana’s eyes pierced Jerry’s. A smile, an understanding, a promise through his mind voice to return, and Jerry left with the others.

  By the next evening, they had arrived at the missionary school and infirmary, where they were offered a meal at a table set with plates and tableware. Jerry found himself trying to make polite conversation, while the native bearers sat outside, roasting game over a fire.

  Home called him—his mother, school, his responsibility to share the knowledge of this trip. That night, he lay in the hammock the missionary offered and knew that on the next day, he would wait with the others for the plane that would take him back to the world he had always known. In a few days, he would be in Berkeley, preparing for the beginning of the new semester.

  And passing Myles in the hallways of the Life Sciences Building, while Myles pretended not to see him.

  A thought went spinning beyond the mosquito net into the humid night. He saw the snake again, its mouth open, moving toward him.

  Myles, what happened to you? What was your great fear? How will you, one day, answer for yourself?

  Jerry took a deep breath and knew one thing with certainty: His visions and new knowledge had indeed allowed him to accept his past.

  Slowly, rocking slightly, he drifted to sleep, his dreams riddled with the calls of birds and monkeys and the flash of Mana’s smile.

  RICHARD

  FAIRFAX, MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  CHRISTMAS, DECEMBER 1967

  On an obscure country road in Fairfax, Alex had rented a private house with a small cement storage room off to one side of the attached garage. A single window gave light and air to the storage room ordinarily, but now, it had been carefully nailed shut and boarded to prevent a break in. Alex had rewired the room so that the tabbing machine could be run there with ample wattage and in safety. He’d replaced the fluorescent bulbs with soft light; built a long worktable with shelves to hold scales, bags, and chemicals; and purchased a small radio. The door to the room was padlocked, and a special key was needed to enter.

  Pulling into the driveway, Alex turned off the ignition key and opened his door. Richard, somewhat spaced, sat there for a moment, pondering Marcie’s question just an hour earlier. She’d lowered her voice once Alex had left the kitchen and quietly asked, “You really think he knows how to work that machine?”

  “It’s pretty straightforward,” he’d answered. “We’ve made a lot of blanks, experimenting with different shapes and sizes. The best make were those small barrel-shaped tabs I showed you. They’re a bit longer than most tabs. We’re going with those. The shape will be distinctive, and we’ll make sure people trust the
acid in them. If there’s a problem with the machine, don’t worry; Alex can handle it.”

  Well, we’ll find out today, won’t we? Richard thought, moving slowly, following Alex through the front door.

  “Hey, you’ve done a good job here,” he said, looking around. “This place has more furniture than my house.

  “Merlin and I moved in that couch a few days ago.” Alex pointed with his chin. “Those end tables too. If anyone comes to the front door, it looks like an ordinary living room. Come on into the kitchen, and I’ll show you what I did last night.”

  From the tiled counter, Alex picked up a manila envelope and waved it at Richard. “Gary turned me on to this friend of his working at UC Med Center. A few weeks ago, he went back to Washington, DC, and visited the Library of Congress Medical Department. Take a look at this.”

  He passed Richard the envelope. “This came last week. It’s a xerox of an important chapter on tablet making, kind of corroborates what we learned at the UC Berkeley Library. But with this method, we can make speckled tabs. It will be a trademark of good quality acid that’ll be hard to duplicate. For Christmas, I can make each tab white with red and green specks. Think Marcie will like that?”

  Opening cupboards under the counter, he took out several gallon jars. “Over the last few days, I came in and mixed the crystal with corn syrup, added the color, and let it dry. Then I ran it through Tyler screens. I used a fairly coarse grid. Now all I have to do is mix these granules of green or red with inert white milk powder.”

  Richard laughed gleefully, shaking his head in disbelief. And I wondered if he could handle the job.

  “So you’ve been working for the last few days? Have you been stoned all this time?”

  “Slightly. Come on. I’ll show you the machine room. Grab that jar of green granules.”

  They took the stairs down to the garage, and Alex unlocked the door to the storage room. “You going to stay for a while?”

  Richard nodded. “I need some samples to eat and to pass around. And I want to wait until Honey comes. Try not to work alone if you can help it. It’s going to be a challenge to operate machinery when you’re really out of it. I want someone here to pull the plug. Okay?”

  “Honey should be with me most of the time, or Merlin, and it should only take about an hour or so to produce a gram of four thousand hits. Light a doobie while I mix this powder with the granules.”

  “What’s happening with the keys to this house?”

  At this, Alex reached into his pocket and, with an unconcealed reluctance, said, “Well, so much for my private space. Here’s your set. The round one’s to this room. Merlin has a set, and so does Honey.”

  “I want to give out a bunch of these tabs at Winterland on New Year’s Eve,” Richard told him, watching the jar roll in Alex’s hand, the granules dotting the milk powder. “If people know they’re good, they’ll move quickly.”

  Alex turned on the switch, and the tap-tap sound of metal hitting metal filled the room. The jar went to the mouth of the hopper, and powder poured into the hold. Soon, the punches were pushing powder into the small dyes with even regularity to make compact little tablets that came spilling through to a tray on the other side.

  Just then, Honey walked into the room, her red hair braided and away from her face. “Hi. You’ve started.”

  Richard watched a cloud of powder fill the room. “Now that Honey’s here, I’m going. Give me a few tablets in a baggie. And don’t forget Felix is coming tonight at eight. He wants a thousand tabs to take on tour.”

  When Richard sauntered into the house later that day, he stood watching from the doorway as Marcie replaced the poker in its rack next to the fireplace. Almost breathless with desire, he pulled the tie from his hair, shook it so that it floated over his shoulders, and took her in his arms.

  “My God, but you’re beautiful.”

  “Richard,” she smiled up at him, “you must be stoned.”

  “I tested one of the new tabs. Take a look.” He pulled the plastic bag from the pocket of his leather jacket. “What do you think?”

  Neat little barrels speckled red and green.

  “How did you do this?” she asked in amazement.

  “I’ll let Alex tell you. Now all I want is you.”

  In the bedroom, they became absorbed with each other, hair mingling, embracing with arms and legs. Richard lost himself in her breasts, larger with the pregnancy, sucking and touching and holding to them even as he entered her. Afterward, as he lay with his head on her shoulder, one hand still caressed their firmness.

  “Richard! Why … there it is again. A flutter—it’s the baby! I felt it move. Put your hand here.”

  He closed his eyes, concentrating, his hand radiating a warm glow. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said softly. “What do you think about getting married? I mean, legally. With the baby, it would mean more protection. I actually worked for a while after high school before I went to university, so there’s Social Security if anything happens to me …”

  “Shhh …”

  “… and you would have legal access in case … in case anything else happens. I mean, all kidding aside, we know that possibility always exists.”

  “Richard, you’re being morbid. I don’t want to talk about you dying or getting busted.”

  “I want you with me always. I know there aren’t any guarantees in life, but if anything ever were to happen, I’d like the world to know how much I truly love you.”

  In a hushed tone, she asked, “Do you really want to get married?”

  “Yes. A big party—trees and flowers, music and acid, in the spring so we can dance under the trees. What do you say?”

  Her eyes softened to a deep, darker blue, and she looked into his. “That’s just the way I dreamed it would be. When the earth is blossoming and renewing itself, we’ll retake our vows.”

  “I’ve been thinking about going to Chicago for the Democratic National Convention in August to support McCarthy, but,” and he shrugged, “with a new baby, I’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Oh, Richard, can you believe how the tribe’s growing—our baby, Greta’s pregnancy, and Michelle’s? I have a feeling 1968 is going to be a wonderful year with our marriage and all the new children. The election. Eugene McCarthy will end the war. And maybe even legalize psychedelics. He’s got to know how acid’s altered our way of seeing the world.”

  “Speaking of the new year,” he looked down at her and grinned, waiting for the explosion of her excitement. “Kathy called today to say she’d be coming home for the holidays. She’s out of the hospital, feeling great, and she’s bringing Larry.”

  Felix Ringer and his manager, Tony, sat in front of the fire in Richard’s living room. Rain was heavy on the roof and blowing lustily against the glass panes. Marcie passed cups of hot cider spiced with cinnamon sticks and cloves.

  “Felix,” she announced, smiling, “Richard and I are getting married.”

  “Congratulations! You’ll have to let me play for the party.”

  “We’re planning a spring ceremony. Kathy and Greta are going to be my bridesmaids!”

  Showing obvious interest, he asked, “Have you heard from Kathy?”

  Marcie nodded, her face glowing with happiness in the fire and candlelight. “She’s coming home for Christmas.”

  “Alone?”

  Felix was still sensitive about Kathy, Marcie knew, still cared for her, needed her friendship, because Kathy was one of the rare people in his life who told him straight about everything.

  “Not sure exactly who’s coming,” Marcie hedged. “They have a big family.”

  Listening, Richard knew he was just as anxious for Kathy and Larry to arrive as Marcie. With Kathy out of the hospital, he wanted to increase the loads she was bringing to the Bay Area. Being able to talk to Larry face to face would give him a better idea of what the possibilities might be. Rather than flying keys into San Francisco airport, Richard knew he wanted to direct his da
y-to-day energy to something more important. In the last weeks, without telling either Marcie or Alex, he’d begun to make inquiries about procuring ergotamine and finding a chemist, the first steps in creating his own lab. All of his efforts in the next year would go toward establishing his own source of good acid.

  “When does your tour leave?” Marcie asked Felix.

  “This weekend. I’m sorry I won’t be around when Kathy gets here.” Then, raising an eyebrow at the unspoken question in Marcie’s face, he reassured her. “Everything’s cool. Just because she got on my case about doing too much coke doesn’t mean I don’t love the girl. I’m into a new high, PCP—phencyclidine. Have you seen any around, Richard?”

  “Will and Rob were doing some of that a couple of months ago when they lived at Casa Madrona. I haven’t had any of it.”

  “Want to try some?”

  Richard shook his head. “I dropped today. I don’t like mixing other drugs with acid. Some other time.”

  “You know what else is good?” Felix told them, his voice slow. “Reds—Seconal. Acid’s so mellow with a Seconal. Either reds or yellows. Lets you relax so you can sleep.”

  “But …” Richard searched for words, “taking a barbiturate with acid? Acid builds a whole foundation of correct logic. Muddy it up with a downer and you destroy part of what you’re trying to achieve.”

  Felix smiled benignly. “You’re too much in your head, man.”

  Richard shrugged, but he was beginning to be acutely aware of different drug ideologies. People were changing. Richard himself was changing. A few months ago, he’d given up his striped pants and billowing shirt for a neat hair tie that held back his long hair, well-fitted shirts, bell-bottom cords, and soft brown boots. He was conspicuous, but no longer outrageous. His hair turned heads, but quietly. In some parts of town, his long hair and clothing were actually beginning to be taken for granted.

  And he knew his values were changing, as well. He no longer cared to experiment with new drugs, like PCP, or to get really wasted. Part of it was the responsibility he felt to his family—not just Marcie and the baby, but the extended family, the tribe, Greta and Merlin, Alex and Honey, and those who had come through the Ashbury house and who still looked to him for product and a livelihood. He had always considered psychedelics a spiritual trip, had taken a lot of acid, but now, rather than trip anywhere at any time, he was becoming more cautious about the setting and who went along on the journey.