2

                         GOING AND COMING WITHOUT A ROOT

               Tina Two Ways stood near the window of the ramshackle 

          house she shared with her brother.  She only half understood 

          why her Twin was desperately stuffing a suitcase with several 

          pairs of socks, old jackets, leather vests, faded blue jeans; 

          all manner of things--it was as though he had lost all his 

          roots in reality.  Maybe, she thought, the peyote really has 

          flipped him out.  Could it happen to me?  

               She stared at him with a strange fascination; with love 

          tempered with fear--for he was the Chosen One, the Savior of 

          her people.  Her love for him was tinged with a feeling of 

          incest, which she quickly repressed--it was as though she was 

          in love with a mirror, but the image in the mirror was male.

               "Tina," George said.

               "What?" Tina asked, though she already knew what he was 

          about to say.

               "I'll miss you, kid.  You're fun to tease, think of that 

          when you go into the bars in Invisible City and get smashed.  

          You know, Gandolph's, the Corner, Louie's--say goodbye to 

          Louie and Gandolph for me, will you?"

               "I am not a barfly," Tina objected, crossing her hands 

          across her small, round breasts.  Her thighs were ample in 

          her tight blue jeans.  She was the image of the seductress--but 

          not without the masculinity of the androgyne.

               George laughed and said, "Famous last words.  Come on, 

          you said you'd drive me to the airport.  But on the way we 

          must stop and see mother, even if it means a small detour.  

          To the batmobile!"

               Outside the house the beat up old 57 Chrysler New Yorker 

          waited.  With power steering--a luxury car for its time, now 

          a bomber.  

               They threw the suitcase in the backseat, then were off 

          in a squeal of tires--George said:  "We really need to get 

          her transmission fixed.  This car takes off like it's the  

          batmobile--who was it who thought of that nickname for this 

          car?"

               "I think it was Jay or Dave.  But it could also have 

          been maybe...Joe...maybe Don...maybe Dan...who cares?  It's 

          fun driving the batmobile," Tina said.  "Even if it's not the 

          one in the movies--man, where does he get those marvelous 

          toys?"

               George said as the car bumped along, "But she sure is a 

          gas-guzzler."

               Once off the backroads and out on the highway travel was 

          faster.  The conversation ground to a halt as Tina lost 

          herself in her next date and George lost himself in his date 

          with destiny.  Invisible City, some twenty miles north where 

          the nearest airport lay.

               And soon he would be astral-traveling.  In just a few 

          days' time.

               Soon she lay before them, this Night of asphalt, this 

          airstrip, as the New Yorker pulled up into the parking lot.  

          The turbo-prop was already churning up its prop blades, 

          swishing air, as George Two Ways raced to the ticket counter.

               "One--bound for Lima, Peru."

               "You'll be making connections in Minot, Phoenix, and 

          Mexico City.  Enjoy your flight and thank you for traveling 

          United."

               Tina hugged George goodbye; her body so androgynous:  

          with small breasts like a man's and the stridency of her 

          hips, such feminine delight--and her touch, so sensuous, as 

          she clung to him, sobbing out her grief and joy--she did not 

          know which--for his going...without error.

               There is one Root and many Branches on the azot plant.

               George broke away from his sister's embrace, saying, 

          "The plane..."

               "The plane, boss, the plane!" she cried, and they both 

          broke up laughing.  With that George hurried to board the 

          plane.  The asphalt was soft beneath his feet in the summer 

          sun; and the heat of Day would be long before it would be 

          destroyed by Night, the twin god and goddess.

               The Many and not the One.  Polytheism and not monotheism.  

          Monotheism had always been a concept alien to George; he had 

          grown up in the peyote religion and it seemed natural to him 

          that all things should have Spirits.  Not just the Holy Spirit.

               George slung his baggage into the overhead rack, sat by 

          himself--of course, none of the white people on the plane 

          would want to sit with a "filthy" Indian...though he'd shaved 

          and showered that morning.

               When the plane laid over in Minot George ventured into 

          the airport restaurant for, "A cheeseburger?  No, no thanks; 

          I think I might get air sick.  Do you have anything light?" 

          he asked the chic waitress in her white blouse.

               "A salad?" came the reply.

               George nodded.  As the waitress vanished George looked out on 

          a sea of faces, and some of them were white, while others were 

          Indian.  They swam, swam in anger as a drug flashback gripped him:  

          He was again at the scene of confrontation, facing down an angry 

          priest, being halted by Jerome...why?

               He found himself mumbling that question aloud to a bowl 

          of shredded lettuce greens swimming in Thousand Island 

          dressing, the waitress staring at him like, Phew, is this guy 

          already corroded?  

               He picked up his fork and began to eat, contemplating 

          the Indian faces in the restaurant, the real history, the 

          real forefathers:  An old grandmother with her troop of 

          young; a couple of teenagers flirting by the soda machine; 

          another medicine man who stood there like a mirror, like he 

          was caught in a time-warp, like he was the end of George's 

          quest while Two Ways was the beginning--

               In Lima, he took the map Jerome had given him from his 

          vest pocket and studied it.

               It showed him exactly where the azot plants were.

               Which would teach him to see the world in two ways; or 

          perhaps to see two worlds--Jerome had not been too clear on 

          which; he'd said that George would understand once he got 

          there.

               Abruptly Two Ways found himself at the airport in Lima.

               I must've blacked out from the peyote, he thought.

               Then he saw a glittering gem which contained blackness 

          and knew that it was real--he was seeing into one of the 

          thought-holos of the Incas, seeing into another world; a 

          different time, a different place.

               What will it be like, this fabled drug?  And what would 

          be the tragedy if this drug were to fall into the hands of 

          the pleasure seekers, the college students, the dope dealers?

               A tragedy too great to measure in words.

               Two Ways was a man of Power; but he had a Reality 

          perhaps greater than his limitations as a sorcerer's 

          apprentice to contend with:  azot, he thought, in a flashback 

          to his hippy college days.

               A pretty, young Indian woman sat next to him.  "Are you 

          going to Cuzco?" she asked, smiling sweetly, a look of 

          adoration like a Madonna in her eyes.

               This was not a real thing.  This was an eldritch thing.  

          This was a Spirit:  Day's daughter; Daughter of Love.

               Or was it Lust?

               She continued, after pausing as though to read his mind, 

          "My name is Juanita.  What's yours?"

               She already knows, Two Ways thought.

               "George Two Ways."

               "Two Ways is an Indian name but George is not a Latin 

          American name; Jorge is," she said.  "You are from the Other 

          America."

               "I am seeking the Ancient One," Two Ways said, deciding 

          to be honest with someone who was probably the Spirit of a 

          Saint or a Martyr.

               Yet she said undaunted, "If you are Two Ways, which is 

          the other Way?"

               "The wrong path is evil," Two Ways said.  "But there was 

          a meaning to my name when I was given it, when I was elected 

          to be successor to the shaman of our tribe:  What at first 

          glance appears to be One always has a Dark Side to it; there 

          are always Two--I am, therefore I think...to paraphrase something 

          a famous white man once said--one who believed in the Twosomeness 

          of matter and spirit.  I can see the Two as One now."

               "You are well educated," she said.  "The Ancient One did 

          well to send out the Smoke Spirit to call him to you.  You 

          must be a brave shaman--how do you say it in American?  

          Medicine man?--if you have been elected to take the black and 

          bitter herb of the mountains.  It is said that azot can kill 

          as well as take you to the Other Place."  She winked.  "To 

          help you see the world Two Ways."

               George's heart beat with fear and apprehension.  "Then 

          you are to be my guide?"

               "Yes--I will take you to the Ancient One.  He will 

          instruct you in the ways of seeing through azot."

               "Come," Juanita said, "The rest of the journey is on 

          foot."  She attached a repelling device to her hips.  "Buckle 

          up.  It's only a few mountains away.  The Spirit of the 

          Ancient One will guide us, so that we may see in the dark."

               Mist curled up from the ground, dim, green, phosphorescent 

          mist:  When it reached Two Ways' eyes the world became fluor-

          escent, as though lit by night radar.

               Two Ways felt a sense of dread foreboding.  This 

          woman...she was not wholly of this world.

               Or wholly of the Other.

               Mountain climbing in the dark led by a witch-woman who 

          had the power to give you the ability to see in the dark was 

          quite an experience for George Two Ways--but his guide was 

          sure-footed and kept him to all the proper paths.  Rocks 

          under his fingers were clefts for climbing; or then a peak 

          would be mounted, the rope looped about something, and they 

          would repel down a sheer cliff.  It was a world of stone and 

          ice; endless cliffs, endless heights:  sacred vertigo.

               There was an old shack in the middle of the ruins of an 

          Incan city, sort of a restoration of a stone dwelling with a 

          kerosene heater and walls and doors of wood cut from the 

          forest below and hauled up in bits and pieces.

               Juanita knocked.

               The door creaked open; the old Indian who confronted him 

          was dressed in traditional Incan ceremonial robes--the robes 

          of a priest.

               Two Ways bowed low.  His pulse quickened.

               He waited to hear what the old man had to say; he hoped 

          and prayed that he would speak favorably.

               "I am the Ancient One.  And you are Two Ways.  I would 

          make you more powerful, are you ready for the task?

               And his heart beat furiously as he tried to decide how 

          to answer.

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