“A magical being is a sight to behold. I was fortunate enough to cross paths with one. Our encounter took place after I had learned and practiced a great deal of hunting. Once I was in a forest of thick trees in the mountains of central Mexico when suddenly I heard a sweet whistle. It was unknown to me; never in all my years of roaming in the wilderness had I hears such a sound. I could not place it in the terrain; it seemed to come from different places. I thought that perhaps I was surrounded by a herd of a pack of some unknown animals.
I heard the tantalizing whistle once more; it seemed to come from everywhere. I realized then my good fortune. I knew it was a magical being, a deer. I also knew that a magical deer is aware of the routines of ordinary men and the routines of hunters.
…
I quickly stood on my head and began to wail softly; I actually wept tears and sobbed for such a long time that I was about to faint. Suddently I felt a soft breeze; something was sniffing my hair behind my right ear. I tried to turn my head to see what it was, and I tumbled down and sat up in time to see a radiant creature staring at me, The deer looked at me and I told him I would not harm him. And the deer talked to me.”
Don Juan stopped and looked at me. I smiled involuntarily. The idea of a talking deer was quite incredible, to put it mildly.
“He talked to me,” Don Juan said with a grin.
“The deer talked?”
“He did.”
Don Juan stood and picked up his bundle of hunting paraphernalia.
“Did it really talk?” I asked in a tone of perplexity.
Don Juan roared with laughter.
“What did it say?” I asked half in jest.
I thought he was pulling my eg. Don Juan was quiet for a moment, as if he were trying to remember, then his eyes brightened as he told me what the deer had said.
“The magical deer said, ‘Hello friend,'” don Juan went on. “And I answered, ‘Hello.’ Then he asked me, ‘Why are you crying?’ and I said, ‘Because I’m sad.’ Then the magical creature came to my ear and said as clearly as I am speaking now, ‘Don’t be sad.'”
Don Juan stared into my eyes. He had a glint of sheer mischievousness. He began to laugh uproariously.
I said that his dialogue with the dee had been sort of dumb.
“What did you expect?” he asked, still laughing. “I’m an Indian.”
Taken from Carlos Castaneda’s “Journey to Ixtlan”