A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  For the time being, Myles was out of harm’s way. In a few days, he would harvest his first mushroom crop, a guarantee that he would be back in school in October. And for the moment, that was all that mattered.

  KATHY AND CHRISTIAN

  BERKELEY AND LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

  AUGUST 1968

  “Why does this hash have to arrive at exam time?” Kathy moaned to Danny. “I can’t skip the exam!”

  For the last two months, she’d been waiting for a phone call from Julie. “If I go down to L.A. and pick it up, will you have time to run samples around?”

  “Yeah. My work’s almost done,” Danny answered. “I’ve got a little math and a paper to finish before the first of September, but that gives me three weeks.”

  “I’m not going to stay in Topanga,” she insisted. “Even though I’d like to get to know Julie’s old man and hear everything about the Afghan trip. I won’t be distracted. I’ll just go, make the buy, and come right back.”

  “Uh-huh,” Danny answered, noncommittally.

  “Oh, I do wish all that lovely hash wasn’t coming in now,” she murmured in something very close to a whine.

  Kathy’s decision to return to school was the result of several factors—among them, her acid trip at Marcie’s wedding.

  The ceremony had taken place on a California spring day when the sky above the Sonoma ranch was clear and the air warm. Toward the end of the afternoon, Peter, who she later learned was Kevin’s Canadian connection, had asked her to take a walk. Stoned, too much champagne and acid, she’d taken the road away from the noise of the party into the countryside with him, following the flowing feeling in her body. He had gallantly carried a fresh bottle of champagne and two glasses, his arm around her, and they’d leaned on each other, sexual tingling in their touch, laughing and comparing stories from the Haight. Only later did she learn of Kevin’s nervousness and Larry’s annoyance at her disappearance.

  She and Peter had gone swimming in a pond at the end of the road, made love on the grass, and when the sun was low on the horizon, Peter was seen to return to the house … alone. And Kathy … Kathy had stayed to think about things, to enjoy the trip and her thoughts and pull her head together.

  When the sun fell behind the coastal range and she knew evening was approaching, she’d finally stood and stretched, aware of how she loved this part of the acid experience, this intimacy with her own body, the ability to perceive what was normally taken for granted. From the length of the visuals at the beginning of the trip, she knew she had another eight to ten hours of the journey.

  Odd, she thought, pondering this knowledge. On the last trips I’ve taken, I’ve had absolute control. Almost as if I knew the trip before taking it.

  In the clarity of the moment, she felt a tremendous power within herself, a will that could be directed along any path. She longed to use it, but where? Where was she to put her mind energy? There were so many things she wanted to know. The elements of the universe. Its physics and chemistry. Philosophy, literature, art. The extraordinary ideas that determined the shape of ordinary reality. Acid had shown her these things on an elemental level, had given her an innate sense of existence. But human knowledge could be put into language, into words, shared, and at this moment, she wanted to gather all these words to herself. She longed to stretch her mind, just as she stood stretching her muscles. But how? What was the yoga of the mind?

  Twilight was full upon the forest, and although the cooling air forced her to dress, she was in no rush to return to the party. She walked back slowly, thoughtfully, and as she did, she considered her life.

  Work was no longer enough. The job was a question of mechanics at this point.

  One by one, she went through the relationships around her, examining, putting them in clear perspective, deciding which were right for her, which were growing, which weren’t.

  The afternoon with Peter had been fun, but the liaison was … unsatisfying. She wanted something more than a warm body. Most of the women she knew were having babies, taking care of homes and their men. Only with Larry had there ever been the suggestion of a future. But she definitely wasn’t ready for a child.

  Alright, she told herself when she could see the house lights. First, I’m cutting back on drugs. I’m not doing any more STP. Too speedy and jagged for me. PCP’s turning people into babbling idiots. Alex is a prime example. As for acid, I’ll stop taking it so frequently. No more controlling the trip. I’m not eating anything under a thousand mics.

  Yet something was still missing. Again, she wondered how could she put together all the things she was learning.

  The answer suddenly crystallized.

  The university. UC Berkeley. School had been the one thing that had always kept her interest and offered motivation. She’d register for summer school.

  Inevitably, Kathy chose a biology course, the one class at LSU she’d truly loved. In perusing the course choices, it came as no surprise to anyone that she selected a class entitled Plants and Man.

  Stunned from Dr. Benjamin Miller’s first lecture, she listened, absorbed, as he brought to light all the things she’d newly experienced in the last year. The lectures gave structure to her ideas and helped her understand her relationships with the plants she used.

  Among the perks of the class was the new relationship with her section TA, a young botanist named Jerry Putnam. Over a period of several weeks, she’d recognized him as more than a teaching assistant, but couldn’t put her finger on just what made Jerry unique. Yes, he was brilliant, really knew his material and had a good amount of field experience. But there was something different about him, something more spiritual than academic. Jerry understood things—innate relationships between living organisms—and for many weeks, she wondered just how he had come to know his material, his unique understanding of the inseparable nature of all life … until the day he had rushed into the class section late, apologizing, and she had seen his enlightened grin and the blue stain on his fingers. She’d seen that same blue stain on the fingers of a friend in Bodega Bay when picking his crop of magic mushrooms.

  After the discussion, she had approached him and, pointing to his fingers, had asked, “Would you like to have a cup of tea?”

  Jerry’s surprised look had immediately prompted Kathy to whisper, “Maybe I can help.”

  Over the weeks, from that first guarded conversation over a small outdoor table, they had become fast friends. Their conversations grew in scope with each private meeting, not simply about their personal lives—how to work and go to school, the books and movies they preferred, where they lived—or about the academic course material—but, rather, they were united in their growing friendship by a true inner understanding that leaf and vine and bark and shrub were put on earth for man to use for food, flavor, healing, and enlightenment.

  Jerry eventually began to speak of his shamanic journeys—his trip to Africa and the iboga experience with members of the Bwiti tribe, and of his subsequent visit to the Amazon rainforest and drinking ayahuasca, the “vine of the dead.” He’d shared his memory of Mana, the shaman who’d adopted him as a son, told tales of flying and knowing the unknown. He spoke of the prophesy of María Guadalupe while he lived among the Mazatecs in Oaxaca and her assurance that the mushrooms would help him to teach.

  In those later conversations, in a huge leap of faith for them both, he had answered Kathy’s questions about his grow, his garden of mushrooms, and she had explained her own work, asking whether he’d be interested in having her sell the crop of dried mushrooms he’d been bagging up and sealing.

  At her inquiry, Jerry had sat back in his chair, his body slumped in relief. Kathy’s offer guaranteed that his summer job would put him back in school when fall classes began in October.

  As the weeks progressed, Kathy took his mushrooms as they bloomed, the crops coming in waves, hundreds at a time, and then dying back. While the mycelium got ready to produce a second, third, and fourth blossoming, the picked mu
shrooms dried in the homemade dryer Jerry had made—a box of stacked trays, screened for airflow, and a warm lamp for heat.

  Kathy found she loved the man’s quiet sense of purpose, his courage. As they took walks through the campus redwood groves and along its creeks, or chose a table at an outdoor coffeehouse, their voices low, little by little, Jerry had told his story—his childhood in Berkeley, growing up in the biology department with his father, how a best friend had betrayed him, his conviction and incarceration, his travels, being chosen by the Teacher in the mushroom, and the message important enough, Kathy recognized, for him to risk much.

  She wondered again about the law. If they were going to use the law to put people away, then how could the law be changed? The establishment was putting away the leaders of political movements, incarcerating people possessing an herb that had been a part of human history from the beginning, people who were no threat to anyone. Except those corporations making obscene profits off the war.

  “Myles tried to cut me out of the university,” Jerry confided. “He made sure I wouldn’t get my student loan for next year.”

  “Where is this Myles now?” she’d asked.

  “In Europe. Germany, to be exact. I believe he’s working for Interpol. Busy putting other people in jail.” Jerry’s mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I just don’t get how could he go from being my best friend to … to what he has become.”

  “They threatened him,” Kathy answered quietly. “And he was afraid.”

  Now, Kathy pondered all the implications of Julie’s phone call telling her that Bob had returned from Afghanistan and the hash was waiting. She knew she was at a crossroads. One more week of summer school remained. Would she simply slip back into her work, smoking hash and visiting with customers and friends, letting the days drift, one into another, without a goal?

  No, she told herself sternly.

  Both Jerry and Dr. Miller had been excited about the topic she’d chosen for her course paper—mystical experience in children’s literature. In fact, Dr. Miller had personally spoken to her about her research. Could she disappoint them both by dropping out of the course in the last week?

  She realized, too, that the responsibility of managing time, of the discipline of study, had given her a new maturity and confidence. Berkeley admissions had mentioned that there were a few places left for fall quarter, and she’d already written to LSU for her transcripts. If her grades were good enough, she could enter the university as a fulltime student, something more than simply taking informal summer school classes.

  All she needed to do was hold it together long enough to finish the paper and take the final exam.

  When Kathy disembarked from the plane in L.A., Julie and Shakti were there to pick her up. Kathy put the small traveling suitcase that would hold the hash into the car and climbed into the passenger seat. True to her word, she’d refused to take even overnight clothes so she wouldn’t be tempted to stay.

  “Oh, Julie, she’s gorgeous,” Kathy exclaimed, holding out a finger for the baby to grasp. “She’s not the tiny newborn I remember anymore! Is Bob having fun with her?”

  “He thinks she’s totally groovy! But there’s so much going on at the house, we haven’t had many moments alone. Kathy, you should see the hash. Thin slabs, so fresh, it smells like the plant is still in the ground.”

  “How much did he bring in?”

  “They were supposed to pack a few surfboards. But when they saw how much was around, they just got caught up in it. That’s what took so long. They lined all sorts of things—suitcases, trunks, furniture. Then it had to be shipped. They scored two hundred pounds.”

  Kathy touched Julie’s Afghani dress—lapis blue, long to the ankle and wrist with elaborately embroidered flowers on the yoke and hem. “Looks like they brought back more than hash.”

  “Not only dresses, but rugs, statues, hookahs, woven pillows—lots of things.”

  “How much hash do you have for me?” Kathy asked.

  “Bob promised me half of our share to distribute. Twenty-five pounds. It’s expensive. Nine hundred dollars a pound for one or for all. What do you think?”

  Kathy computed quickly. Nine hundred dollars was expensive for quantity. But Afghani was worth it. She could probably get twelve to fourteen a pound in Berkeley, or if she broke several pounds into ounces, she’d make more. Hash was easy, compact, simple to weigh and wrap and move.

  “I’ll take it all.”

  “I thought you would. That means it’s all sold. Bob and I hope to leave on Monday for Maui.”

  The warm Southern California sun flashed across her arms and face. The wind from Julie’s car window blew into her hair. The tempting urge to stay the weekend became almost overpowering. The beach lured her.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a vacation! Thank God exams are over next week.”

  “You’re determined to go to school?” Julie asked, casting her a side-glance and shaking her head.

  “Yes. And right now don’t say anything. It’s hard enough,” Kathy answered. “How are things with you and Bob?” Then grinning, asked. “Has he heard about Jeff yet?”

  Julie nodded. “Jeff moved out when Bob came home.” She tried to stifle a smile, looked toward Kathy’s grin, then burst into laughter. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. Okay. It was a scene.”

  “Where’s Jeff now?”

  “Santa Cruz. I mean, he and Bob are still brothers. Bob can’t deny that he helped with the birth—kept me together when I needed someone. I love Jeff, and I know he’s terribly hurt that I didn’t stay with him.” Then her voice sobered. “But when Bob saw the baby, he cried. And when I saw all those packages and rugs and hash and understood what Bob’s been through to bring them back, well, I knew I had to let Jeff go.” Shakti whimpered, and Julie patted her stomach, shushed her in a soothing voice. “How long are you going to stay?”

  “Just long enough to pick up the hash. I’m turning right around and leaving this evening. I was thinking about coming back when exams are over, but it looks like you’ll be gone.”

  “Why not come to Hawaii? We’ll be there for a few months.”

  “I wonder if I could manage it. If I left right after exams and stayed a week or so, I could get back in time to give Danny a break before his school term starts.”

  In fact, the more she thought about a vacation, the more appealing the idea became. Between work and school, she’d not always been able to smoke or socialize.

  When she’d first started attending classes, she’d smoked before leaving the house, but quickly learned that smoking was incompatible with note taking. Not only did it double her workload because she had to copy someone else’s notes, but she couldn’t follow the logic of the lectures. One spoken idea would lead to ten thoughts in her head, and by the time she redirected her attention, she’d missed five minutes of discussion. Shocked, she realized she was concentrating on about fifteen minutes of lecture for each hour of class. Twenty-five percent of the material would not get her a passing grade. After a week of this, she had to choose—either get stoned and space and find something else to do—or regulate her approach, train her mind to listen and her hands to respond with note taking. She compromised, smoking only in the evenings when there were no deadlines or when her studies for the day were over.

  Now, with a week left of school, she wouldn’t be able to smoke with her customers and friends as she sold the hash. Disciplined facts could not be held in place with the pipe. The whole purpose of smoking was the looseness of thought, quiet meditation, a free flow of thinking. Hawaii promised something special before October classes.

  “Do you want to invite someone to come with you to Maui?” Julie asked, a raised eyebrow suggesting that Kathy needed a man.

  Kathy thought about it. The men in her life were all on the back burner. Larry was resettled—or unsettled, as the moment might be—with Carolyn. Jacob had been in town for two or three nights, and they’d had an evening to
gether. She’d not even had time to talk to Marcie about Peter, because Marcie had been bouncing between Berkeley and Humboldt County most of the summer. The only bit of intrigue was Matt, and she had resisted the seduction, certain it would create a messy situation with Jacob. Yet even that refusal surprised her. Until then, she’d not turned down any man she wanted. Sex was free and open and unattached. So she still puzzled over why it suddenly might matter who she balled.

  “I don’t think so. I think it’ll just be me.”

  Julie turned into the driveway, and Kathy immediately counted six other parked cars. “Julie, why all these cars?”

  “Don’t worry. Everybody’s cool. Come on inside.”

  Still, Kathy hesitated. She didn’t want to meet any new people when doing a deal, would never transfer money for product in a room full of people. And by now, she knew that Bob and his partners were part of the Brotherhood. Although they moved at will under false passports, their increasingly mythic status in the underground could make them more visible. She had a gut feeling that the scene was too open, a little loose. From where she sat in the driveway, she could hear music, loud enough so that she recognized Jeff Beck’s voice.

  Against her better judgment, she entered the house, slipped off her shoes, and set the suitcase down by the front door.

  “This way,” Julie said, leading her down a dimly lit hallway.

  When Julie finally opened a door to a back bedroom, Kathy was grateful to find Bob alone. His interest was immediate, and Kathy instantly recognized it for what it was. She was more than a new customer. She was a woman. Relaxing, she smiled, knowing just how to deal with this buy.

  “Hi. You’re Kathy, right? Julie’s told me about you. Have you smoked any of the hash yet?”

  Kathy laughed at his intensity and shook her head. “I’m just off an airplane and into the house.”