When the Storyteller finished speaking, the rain had stopped.
Missy closed her notebook but continued thinking about apertures, unfinished worlds, and doors that appeared without announcing themselves.
By evening, she had returned to the Train to Elsewhere.
The city gradually disappeared behind her. Buildings dissolved into scattered lights, the lights became distant stars, and the stars lowered themselves over a desert glowing amber beneath the setting sun.
Missy had been considering how a person was supposed to choose a direction when several realities remained visible at once.
The Train, which occasionally answered questions without being asked, had placed someone in the observation car.
Two cocktails waited on the table.
Each was adorned with a miniature cactus.
Condensation traveled slowly down the cocktail glasses while the warm desert light moved across the polished table.
Across from the empty seat sat a man who had devoted much of his life to paths, perception, and the dangers of believing too firmly in an ordinary world.
Missy sat down.
The train rolled through a desert that seemed to have forgotten whether it belonged to yesterday or tomorrow.
She found herself across from Carlos Castaneda.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Carlos appeared perfectly comfortable with silence.
Missy appeared perfectly comfortable with everything.
Finally she asked:
“Have you ever considered becoming less mysterious?”
Carlos looked up.
“No.”
“Not even once?”
“No.”
“That seems statistically unlikely.”
Carlos smiled faintly.
Missy pointed at him.
“There. You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“It was an involuntary muscular event.”
“That’s exactly what a smiling person would say.”
Carlos took a sip of his drink.
“You ask strange questions.”
Missy looked delighted.
“Thank you.”
“It was not a compliment.”
“Those are my favorite kind.”
Carlos studied her.
Most people who met him either wanted answers or wanted to impress him.
Missy appeared interested in neither.
“What do you want?” he asked.
She thought carefully.
“A second cactus.”
“What?”
“The drink should have two cactuses.”
“Why?”
“It feels lonely.”
Carlos stared at her.
“You’re assigning emotional states to garnish.”
“You’re assigning emotional states to the universe.”
He paused.
Missy smiled.
The train rattled softly.
Outside, the desert glowed amber beneath the setting sun.
“Don Juan would have called that controlled folly,” Carlos said.
Missy nodded.
“I call it hospitality.”
Carlos laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound surprised even him.
Missy immediately pointed.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“The happiness.”
Carlos shook his head.
“You are very dangerous.”
“Thank you.”
“Again, not a compliment.”
She leaned forward.
“You know, I read your books.”
“That was your first mistake.”
“I liked the part about paths with heart.”
Carlos became quiet.
“And?”
Missy looked out the window.
“I think people misunderstand that teaching.”
“How so?”
“They assume a path with heart feels easy.”
Carlos watched her carefully.
“But?”
“But every worthwhile thing I’ve ever loved broke my heart at least a little.”
Carlos’s expression softened.
The desert slipped past in silence.
At last he said:
“That is closer to what I meant than most explanations I’ve heard.”
Missy grinned.
“I knew it.”
“You knew what?”
“I charm philosophers.”
“I am not a philosopher.”
“That’s exactly what philosophers say.”
“I am a warrior.”
Missy tilted her head.
“Do warriors enjoy tiny cactuses?”
Carlos looked down at his drink.
For the first time, he noticed that the miniature cactus was blooming with a pink flower.
After a long pause he said:
“Sometimes.”
Missy raised her glass.
“Progress.”
Carlos raised his own.
The glasses touched.
Outside, the sunset deepened.
Inside, Carlos found himself doing something he had spent decades avoiding.
Enjoying the conversation more than the lesson.
And Missy, noticing this, wisely said nothing at all.
Continue the journey
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