I never thought that feeding the same being for almost 40 years was going to reveal to me a truth capable of shaking my insides, because what that nahual confessed to me explains why his species fears us and why perhaps he is right. The first time I saw him was on an afternoon in October 1984. The air smelled of wet earth and a thousand dry. The mountains of San José del Pacífico were lost in thick fogs that seemed to devour all sound.

I was just 28 years old and had recently married Remedios, my wife. We had settled on a small plot of land on the outskirts of town, in the mountains of Oaxaca, where we were trying to build our first milpa and build a life together. My name is Evaristo Mendoza. Today I am 73 years old, but my memory keeps intact the memories of those days, as if time had not passed. For most of my life I was a forest overseer, tending fields, guarding forest roads and keeping stories that people prefer not to mention out loud.

The grandparents of the village always said that there are truths that must be whispered, not out of fear, but out of respect for what dwells in the shadows. That morning in 1984 I went out early to check the boundaries of my land. Remedios had prepared me some bean gorditas with cheese and a thermos of coffee that I carried in my backpack along with my machete and a petroleum lamp. The sky was covered by dense clouds that threatened a storm.

But that was not unusual at that time of year. When we reached the northern boundary, where our land met the thick forest, I noticed something strange. The small tank where we kept part of the grain for planting was destroyed. It did not look like the work of some common animal. The boards were torn off as if someone with enormous strength had separated them with his bare hands. The sacks of corn were torn and part of the grain had spilled out in an uneven way.

into the woods. I bent down to examine the footprints on the wet ground. A shiver ran down my spine as I saw them clearly. They weren’t Puma’s, or coyote’s, or any other animal I knew. They were human footprints, but huge, much bigger than any man I’d ever seen. And there was something else to them. They sank deep into the earth, as if whoever had left them weighed twice or three times as much as a normal person.

 

The old people of the village told stories about the Nahuales since I was a child. They said that they were people with the ancestral gift of transforming themselves into animals, guardians of an ancient knowledge that went back to times before the arrival of the Spaniards. Some spoke of them with fear, others with reverence. My grandfather used to say that the Nahuales were neither good nor bad, they simply existed on a different plane from ours, moving between two worlds. “They are like us,” he would say, but with one foot in the spirit realm and the other on the earth.

I had never paid much attention to these stories. I considered them part of folklore, legends that served to explain the inexplicable or to keep children away from the forest at night. But now, in front of those footprints, my grandfather’s words echoed in my head with an eerie clarity. I followed the trail of spilled grain for about 50 meters into the forest. The mist grew denser with each step and the sounds of the forest seemed to fade, as if nature itself held its breath.

I stopped next to a hundred-year-old tree when I heard a low, deep sound, almost like a muffled drum reverberating through the mist. That’s when I saw him for the first time. Among the tree trunks and the undergrowth, a figure moved cautiously. She was tall, much taller than me, and thin, with long arms and strong legs. Their skin was dark, not the brown color of ours, but a shade reminiscent of the moist bark of trees, with textures that seemed to change according to the light that filtered through the branches.

His head was human-shaped, but there was something feline about the way he moved, in the agility of his gestures. When our eyes met, I felt time stand still. His eyes shone like embers, with an intensity that paralyzed me. There was no aggression in them, but something deeper, curiosity, intelligence and perhaps a glimmer of recognition. For an eternal instant we observe each other, motionless like two beings from different worlds trying to understand each other’s nature.

He didn’t roar, he didn’t attack, he didn’t show his teeth, he just watched me studying me as if he was trying to determine if I posed a threat. By pure instinct I reached into my backpack and took out one of the bean gorditas that Remedios had prepared for me. With slow movements I bent down and set her down on a flat stone, taking a few steps back. The being remained alert by slightly tensing its body, but showing no signs of wanting to attack. “For you,” I said quietly, pointing to the chubby one, “it’s food.

I didn’t expect him to understand my words, but I wanted him to get my intention. The nahual, because he was now sure that it was, tilted his head slightly as if processing my gesture. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, he retreated into the dense vegetation and disappeared into the shadows. I stood there for a few more minutes, motionless, my heart beating rapidly. Part of me wanted to run away, go home and tell Remedios what I had seen. Another part, the one who had grown up listening to my grandfather’s stories, understood that he had just witnessed something sacred, something that few had the privilege of seeing.

I finally decided to return home. Before leaving, I looked at the stone where I had left the gordita. He was no longer there. That night I couldn’t sleep. The images of my encounter with the nahual danced in my mind like fragments of a dream, remedies. He noticed my uneasiness and asked me what I was worried about. I didn’t have the courage to tell him the truth, partly because I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me, and partly because I felt that what happened in the forest was personal, a secret between me and the being with the bright eyes.

I’m just tired, I said, kissing his forehead. Tomorrow will be another day. The next morning I returned to the same place. I didn’t know exactly why I was doing it, but something inside me was driving me to come back. This time I brought three gorditas wrapped in corn husks and a small pumpkin full of atole. I left them on the same flat stone and retired, sitting about 20 m away, partially hidden in the vegetation. I waited almost two hours. As I was about to give up, a movement among the trees caught my attention.

It was he, the nahual, cautiously approaching the offering. He paused several times sniffing the air, making sure there was no danger. Finally he reached the stone and took one of the gorditas. He smelled it in detail before putting it in his mouth. As I watched him eat, I could appreciate him better. Its height exceeded 2 met. Its body, though thin, showed fibrous muscles under the dark skin. His hands were large, with long fingers that ended in something resembling claws, but which he handled with surprising delicacy.

He was not wearing clothes like us, but his body seemed to be covered by a kind of very short fur that shone with reddish tones under the scarce light that filtered through the clouds. The most impressive thing was his eyes. From my hiding place I could clearly see the golden amber color that shone brightly. They were ancient eyes, eyes that had seen things I couldn’t even imagine. The nahual consumed all the food with precise and elegant movements. Then he did something that surprised me.

He picked up the corn husks and the empty pumpkin and arranged them carefully on the stone. Then he took something from the ground, a perfectly formed pine cone, and placed it next to the empty containers. An exchange, a thank you. Before leaving, the nahual turned his head in my direction. For a terrifying moment, I thought he had discovered me. His eyes seemed to look straight into my hiding place and a slight tilt of his head made me hold my breath. Then, as silently as he had come, he disappeared into the thick forest.

When I was sure it was gone, I went over to the stone and took the pineapple, which was perfect, without a single blemish, as if it had been selected for a specific purpose. I kept it in my backpack like a treasure. That night, while Remedios slept, I took out the pineapple and examined it under the dim light of a candle. It didn’t seem to be anything special, and yet I felt it meant something important. I decided to keep it in a small wooden box that I had next to our bed.

What do you keep there so carefully?, Remedios asked me the next day, noticing the box. An amulet. Answered. For good luck. And in some ways that’s exactly what it was. Over the next few weeks, I established a routine. Three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he would go to the same place in the woods and leave food, gorditas, fruits, pieces of dried meat, sometimes just roasted corn with salt. And always, when he returned the next day he found the food consumed and something left in its place.

Stones arranged in perfect circles, turkey feathers placed in intricate patterns, perfectly peeled ears of corn or pirul branches bent in ways that seemed to transmit messages that I could not decipher. Remedios began to notice my regular outings to the forest, but she never questioned me directly. Perhaps I sensed that there was something special about these excursions, something that I needed to keep to myself. Or maybe he just respected my space, as I respected his when he spent hours knitting or talking to his mother in the village.

Over time, the nahual began to appear when I arrived with the food. At first he kept at a distance watching me from the shadows. Gradually he began to get closer until one day, almost 6 months after our first meeting, he sat about 5 meters away from me while I left the offerings. It was the first time I was able to really appreciate it in all its magnificence. He was, without a doubt, the most extraordinary being he had ever seen. His form was humanoid, but there were jaguar-like elements in the texture of his skin, in the shape of his eyes, in the agility of his movements.

His face had indigenous features mixed with something feline, high cheekbones, a wide nose, a strong jaw, and there was something profoundly wise in his gaze, something ancient and sad at the same time. Do you have a name?, I asked him one day, knowing that he probably wouldn’t understand me. I am Evaristo. The nahual cocked his head studying me with those bright eyes. It made a low sound, something between a growl and a murmur that sounded vaguely like, “Tacho.” “Tacho?” I repeated, trying to imitate the sound. “Is that your name, Tacho?” The nahual didn’t answer, but something in his posture, in the way he looked at me, made me think that he didn’t mind that name.

From that day on I began to call him that in my thoughts, although I never said it out loud in front of other people. Time passed, the seasons changed, Mimilpa grew and with it our small house. Remedios gave birth to our first child, a boy we named Miguel. Life went on as normal in the village, but in the forest my encounters with Tacho became a constant, an anchor that connected me to something bigger than myself.

I never told anyone about him, not even Remedios, although sometimes I suspect that she knew more than she appeared. One afternoon, after one of my encounters with Tacho, I returned home to find her knitting a new mat. Those of the mountain need offerings. he said without looking up from his work. It is good to respect those who live among the trees. I didn’t ask what she meant, and she didn’t say more. But from that day on, when I prepared the gorditas or atole that I would take to the forest, I took special care to make them tasty, as if I knew exactly who they were for.

In 1991, 7 years after our first meeting, Tacho appeared accompanied. Behind him, partially hidden among the vegetation, a second, smaller nahual, with reddish fur and more graceful movements peeped out. A female. The first time I saw her she kept her distance, watching me with obvious distrust. Tacho, for his part, seemed to want to introduce us by gesturing for her to come closer while pointing at me with a shake of his head. The female Nahual, whom I never named, took weeks to get close enough to take food directly from my hand.

She was more cautious than Tacho, more reserved, but there was an elegance in her, a delicacy in her movements that contrasted with the brute strength of her partner. I understood then that Tacho was introducing me to his family. He was showing me that he trusted me enough to reveal to me the most precious thing he had. It was an honor I never expected to receive. The following years brought changes to our lives. Miguel grew up strong and healthy and soon had two sisters, Luisa and Carmen.

Our home was expanded to accommodate the growing family. I officially became Caporal del Monte, in charge of guarding the communal lands and mediating in disputes over boundaries. The townspeople respected me and trusted me to solve problems. And all that time I continued to feed Tacho and his partner three times a week without failing once. They, in turn, began to leave me signs in the forest, marks on the trees that warned me of impending storms, tracks that guided me to hives of wild honey, tracks that alerted me to the presence of poachers on the communal lands.

Our relationship evolved beyond simply exchanging food. It became a kind of silent alliance, a pact between two beings from different worlds who had found common ground in mutual respect. “People say there are fewer nahuales every year.” I commented one afternoon to my grandfather while we were sharing a mezcal under the porch of his house. I was curious to know what he thought, who knew the old stories better than anyone. Times change, he replied, looking up at the mountains with eyes clouded by age.

The forests shrink, the roads widen, the machines roar where before only the wind was heard. Where can guardians hide when there are no shadows left? Do you think they will ever disappear completely? I asked, feeling an inexplicable sadness at the idea. My grandfather took a sip of mezcal before answering. Nothing disappears completely, son. It just shapeshifts like themselves. His words stayed with me for days as I watched the changes in our town. New roads, more houses, fewer trees.

The world advanced and with each step of progress, the wild spaces, the spaces where beings like Tacho could exist freely were reduced. One afternoon in 1997, Tacho did something unusual. Instead of just taking the food I offered, he beckoned me to follow him. He had never invited me to go deeper into his territory before, and the idea gave me both excitement and fear. Do you want me to go with you?, I asked, pointing to the barely visible path that went into the densest part of the forest.

Tacho nodded, a gesture so human that I was always surprised to see it in him. His partner was not there that day, which seemed strange to me, but I did not question his absence. I continued to take paths that I had never traveled, despite my years as a foreman. He moved with unearthly grace through the dense vegetation, adapting his pace so that I could follow him. Sometimes he would stop and wait patiently when I was late. Other times he indicated to me with gestures which way to go.

After almost an hour of hiking, we arrive at a clearing hidden between rock formations. In the center of the clearing was an opening in the earth, a natural cave whose entrance was partially covered by vines and moss. Tacho stopped in front of the cave and looked at me as if asking permission to show me what was inside. I nodded, swallowing hard, preparing for whatever he was going to reveal to me. The interior of the cave was surprisingly spacious and, to my amazement, showed clear signs of habitation.

There was an area with dry leaves and skins that clearly served as a bed. Against one of the walls were lined up carefully arranged objects, stones carved with symbols I did not recognize, bones polished to shine, rudimentary tools made of wood and stone, and several of the objects I myself had left him as offerings over the years. In the center of the cave, lying on a bed of fresh leaves, was Tacho’s companion and next to her something that made my heart stop for an instant, a small bundle of golden fur that moved smoothly, a puppy, a baby nahual.

The female watched me with a mixture of caution and resignation. The little boy, oblivious to my presence, was huddled against his mother’s body, seeking warmth and protection. Tacho made a soft, almost murmuring sound as he pointed to the puppy and then to me. I got the message. He was showing me his son. He was confiding in me the most valuable secret he had. I stood motionless, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I was witnessing. Generations of inhabitants of the mountains had told stories about the Nahuales, but he doubted that anyone had had the privilege of seeing an entire family, of witnessing the miracle of their continuity.

Thank you, I whispered feeling that words were insufficient to express what I felt. Thank you for trusting me. Tacho bowed his head slightly, accepting my gratitude. Then, delicately, he touched the trunk of a sabino that grew near the entrance to the cave and then gently tapped his chest. This is my home, I interpreted. I exist here, I repeated the gesture touching the tree and then my own chest. It was a silent promise, an oath of mutual protection that transcended words.

At that moment, as the sun began to set over the mountains of Oaxaca, we sealed a pact that would bind us together for decades. A pact based not on fear or domination, but on the recognition of our shared humanity, despite our obvious differences. I, Evaristo Mendoza, a simple mountain foreman and he, Tacho, a nahual, a keeper of ancient secrets who had decided to trust me. What I didn’t know then is that that trust would be tested in ways I never imagined, and that what Tacho would eventually reveal to me would forever change my understanding of his species, ours, and the delicate balance between the two.

Because the Nahuales are not afraid of us because we are weaker, they fear us because they have already proven what we humans are capable of and perhaps after all they are right to fear us. The years that followed my discovery of the cave were times of profound learning. Tacho’s puppy, whom I secretly began to call a star because of the golden glow of his fur, grew surprisingly quickly. In just 3 years he went from being a small and vulnerable creature to becoming a young nahual almost the size of his mother, although still with the restless and curious energy of youth.

My visits to Tacho’s family became more frequent. Not only did I leave food at our usual meeting point, but sometimes I went into the cave, always respecting an unagreed ritual, but equally important. I announced my presence from afar, deliberately making noise so as not to surprise them, and I waited for Tacho to come out to meet me before approaching. As time went on, Tacho began to show me his world in ways I never imagined. He guided me through hidden trails in the mountains, revealing places that no other human in the village knew.

Small waterfalls hidden among ancient rocks, caves decorated with ancient paintings, clearings where medicinal plants grew so rare that not even the oldest healers had ever seen them. One day in 1999, as I followed Tacho along a particularly steep trail, we came to what appeared to be a territorial boundary. Tacho stopped abruptly and motioned for me to be quiet. Then, with precise movements of his hands, he motioned for me to bend down and peer through a gap between the rocks.

What I saw took my breath away. In a small and perfectly circular valley, surrounded by centuries-old pines, there were other Nahuales, three adults and two young people, all with variations in the color and texture of their coats, from dark, almost black, to reddish tones, like that of Tacho’s companion. They moved with the same unearthly grace that characterized my friend, communicating through gestures and low sounds that resounded like distant drums. “There are more,” I whispered, unable to contain my amazement.

I thought you were the only ones. Tacho looked at me with that indecipherable expression he sometimes adopted, a mixture of ancestral wisdom and something similar to sadness. He reached out his hand and showed four fingers. Then he made a broad circular gesture that encompassed the surrounding mountains. Then, he slowly lowered one of his fingers, leaving only three. Four groups. Played. There were four groups and now there are three left. Tacho nodded slightly, confirming my interpretation. Then, with a firm but gentle movement, he signaled that it was time to leave.

I understood that he had shown me something valuable, but also dangerous to know, a secret that I had to protect. On the way back, I reflected on what I had just seen. The Nahuales were not solitary creatures, as he had always believed according to legends. They had social structure, families, territories. They were like us in many ways, organized into communities with their own norms and traditions, and yet they lived completely apart from the human world, hidden in the shadows, watching us from a distance. Why this isolation?

Why so much secrecy? Questions swirled in my head as we descended into more familiar territory. That night, while having dinner with my family, I observed my children with new eyes. Miguel, already 15 years old, showed the same reserved and observant character that I had at his age. Luisa, 13, had her mother’s easy laugh and quick intelligence. Carmen, the youngest at just 11, had a special connection with nature, always bringing home plants, stones and small treasures that she found on her walks.

“Dad, why are you looking at us like that?” asked Carmen, catching me in my silent contemplation. “Because they are my greatest treasure,” I replied sincerely. “Because there are things in this world that we don’t understand, but that we must respect. Like what?” she insisted with that insatiable curiosity that characterized her. I exchanged a glance with remedies before answering. My wife, with her usual intuition, seemed to understand that something important had happened during my outing into the woods. “Like the guardians of the mountain,” I finally replied, “those who live among the trees and have taken care of the earth long before us.

The Nahuales?” asked Miguel, suddenly interested. The boys of the village say that they are old men’s stories. Not everything we don’t see ceases to exist, Remedios interjected, surprising me with the depth of her words. Bid. There are truths in this mountain range that are only revealed to those who know how to look with respect. The conversation turned to other topics, but Remedios’ words resonated in my mind. How much she really knew. He had noticed my prolonged absences, the sparkle in my eyes when I returned from the forest, the strange objects I sometimes brought with me.

She had never questioned me directly, but now I wondered if she somehow shared my secret without words. The year 2000 came with significant changes for our people. The government installed telephone masts in the nearby mountains. He drew up plans for a highway that would connect San José del Pacífico with more distant communities and more tourists began to arrive attracted by the natural beauty of the mountains and its traditions. With each new change, I watched as Tacho and his family retreated further into the forest.

The areas where we used to meet were getting closer and closer to busy trails, forcing them to seek refuge in more remote and inaccessible areas. One afternoon in April, as I was leaving a basket of fruit and tortillas at our usual meeting point, I heard human voices approaching. It was a group of tourists guided by one of the young people of the town. I quickly hid the basket among the vegetation and adopted the posture of someone who simply checks the forest for work reasons.

“Don Evaristo, the guide greeted me. I didn’t expect to find him so far in the bush, checking that there is no illegal logging,” I replied naturally. Lately there has been a lot of movement in these directions. I told these visitors about the legends of the mountains,” explained the young man, “about the nahuales and the chaneques that according to the grandparents live here. The tourists, most of them foreigners with cameras hanging around their necks, looked at me with obvious interest. Do you believe those stories, sir?” one of them asked in broken Spanish.

I felt an invisible tension in the air, as if multiple eyes were watching us from the thicket. I knew Tacho was probably nearby listening, assessing the potential danger. “I think there are more mysteries in these mountains than we will ever understand,” I replied diplomatically. “And that it’s better to treat nature with respect just in case.” The group continued on its way, but the encounter left me uneasy. Times were changing and with them the security of the secret that protected Tacho and his family.

That same night, when I returned to the meeting point to check if he had taken the basket, I found him waiting for me. He was not alone. His partner and Lucero accompanied him, all three with an evident tension in their positions. “I’m sorry about today,” I said. Although I wasn’t sure they understood my words. More and more people are coming. Tacho did something unusual, took a stick and began to draw lines in the wet earth. First he drew what appeared to be the outline of the mountains, then he added small markings that I interpreted as our village.

With precise movements he drew lines that extended from the village into the forest, towards the territories that the Nahuales considered theirs. Humans expand, I interpreted. They enter your territory. Tacho nodded and then, with a sudden movement, erased part of his drawing and drew a new, much smaller boundary. Then he pointed to his partner, to Lucero and, finally, to himself. The message was clear. They were being pushed into smaller and smaller spaces. Their world shrank with each new human incursion.

That’s when I made a decision that would change our lives. I pointed out a specific area of the drawing, a section of upland where the vegetation was particularly dense and the terrain too steep to be attractive to tourists or loggers. “This part belongs to me,” I explained, touching my chest for emphasis. It is my family’s land. I can protect it for you. It was true. Those hectares were part of the inheritance that my father had left me. Lands that I had never developed due to their difficult access.

To most of the townspeople they were worthless, but parao and his family could mean a safe haven. Tacho’s companion made a low sound, almost a purr, and took a step closer to me. It was the first time he had shown such a level of confidence. “I promise,” I said, looking at the three nahuales. No one will disturb them there. That night, on returning home, I spoke with Remedios about my decision not to allow any development in our highlands.

I explained that I wanted to preserve them as they were, as a natural legacy for our children and grandchildren. Is there something else, isn’t there?, she asked with that intuition that always disarmed me, “Something you’ve seen in the bush? For a moment I considered telling her the whole truth, telling her about Tacho, about his family, about the years of silent friendship we had built. But something stopped me. It wasn’t fear that he wouldn’t believe me, but a strange sense of responsibility, as if the secret wasn’t mine to share, not even with the person I loved most in the world.

There are things that are better to protect in silence, I finally replied. Do you support me in this? Remedies. She took my hands in hers and squeezed them gently. I’ve always done it, Evaristo, since you started bringing food to the forest three times a week. I looked at her surprised. She smiled with that expression that mixed tenderness and wisdom. “Women see more than men think,” she added. “My grandmother also left food for those in the bush. She said it brought good luck to the family.

We didn’t say anything else that night, but I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Remedies. I didn’t need all the details to understand the essentials, that there was something sacred about the forest that deserved to be protected. For the next few years I kept my promise. I put up cairns and fences on the boundaries of our highlands, making it clear that they were private property. When the City Council proposed extending forest roads in that direction, I strongly opposed it, citing risks of erosion and environmental damage. I used my position as a respected foreman to ensure that the area remained intact.

Itacho did his part. He and his family settled permanently in that area, creating new caves, shelters, and trails that only they knew. Over time, Lucero grew into an adult nahual, as imposing as his father, but with the golden fur that made him unique. In 2003, something extraordinary happened. During one of my regular visits to Tacho’s new abode. His companion appeared carrying something in her arms. At first I thought it was food or some object, but when she got close enough, I saw that it was a baby, a new Nahual puppy.

small and fragile, with dark fur like Tacho’s, but with golden spots like Lucero’s. A new generation had been born. Despite the pressure on their habitat, despite the growing dangers, Tacho’s family continued to adapt and survive. I was deeply moved. Somehow I felt that I had contributed to this little miracle, that my years of silent protection had helped create a safe space where life could run its course.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, keeping a respectful distance as the mother cradled her calf. Thank you for showing me this. The Nahual stared at me with those amber eyes so similar to Tacho’s and for the first time I felt that she was communicating something directly to me, not with words, but with a clear intention that crossed the barriers between our species, trust, gratitude, and something deeper, something I can only describe as recognition. Recognition that despite our obvious differences, we shared something fundamental, the love for our family and the desire to protect it.

That night, when I returned home, I observed my own children, now almost grown, having dinner around our table. Miguel had begun working with me as an apprentice to Caporal, learning the secrets of the mountain, which would one day be his responsibility. Luisa studied nursing in the city, returning on weekends with stories of a world that seemed increasingly distant from our mountain life. Carmen, always connected to nature, had developed a special talent for herbalism, learning from the village healers ancient remedies that many young people had already forgotten.

“Why are you smiling, Dad?” asked Carmen, noticing my contemplative expression. Because life goes on, I answered, in ways we sometimes don’t expect. In the years that followed, my relationship with Tacho’s family reached a level of complicity I never imagined possible. He was no longer simply the human who brought them food. I had become something of a guardian, an ally in a world increasingly hostile to its species. Tacho began to show me aspects of his life that, I suspect, few humans had ever witnessed.

He guided me to what I called in my mind the Tecutli, a larger, deeper cave that served as a gathering place or shrine. Inside, illuminated by dim light filtering through cracks in the rock, I saw walls decorated with ancient symbols, some of them strikingly similar to the Zapotec and Mixtec glyphs that archaeologists were studying in nearby ruins. In the center of the cave was a flat rock, polished by use, surrounded by carefully arranged objects, feathers, crystals, carved bones, and what appeared to be stone tools so old that they could date back to pre-Hispanic times.

“Is it a sacred place?” I asked, keeping my voice in a respectful whisper. Tacho nodded and then in a gesture that surprised me he placed his hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he had initiated such direct physical contact with me. His hand was heavy, with long fingers ending in something between nails and claws, but his touch was delicate, almost ceremonial. With his other hand he pointed to one of the symbols on the wall, then touched his chest, then the earth under our feet, and finally the air above our heads.

Everything is connected. I interpreted you, the earth, the sky, all is one. I don’t know if I understood his message correctly, but the slight tilt of his head gave me to understand that I had come close enough. One day he touched the trunk of a hundred-year-old juniper. Then he gently tapped his own chest. He repeated the gesture several times, making sure I understood. This is your home,” I said. “You exist here. You’re a part of this.” Tacho nodded and then extended his hand towards me, inviting me to repeat the gesture.

I did it by touching the tree first and then my own chest. “I belong here too,” I said. I’m a part of this, too. It was at that moment, under the shadow of the Ancient Sabine, that we sealed a silent but unbreakable pact, a mutual promise of protection and respect. He would take care of my lands as he always had, keeping them safe from dangers that we humans did not even perceive. I would continue to protect their existence, ensuring that the secret of their presence remained hidden from those who might harm them.

The years passed with the cadence of mountain life, marked by the seasons, the sowing and the harvests. My children grew up and started their own families. Miguel married a young woman from the neighboring village and built his house near ours, gradually assuming my responsibilities as foreman. Luisa finished her studies and returned to work in the community clinic. Carmen never strayed too far, preferring the quiet life of the mountains to the hustle and bustle of the cities.

Through all of these changes, my friendship with Tacho and his family remained constant, an anchor that connected me to something deeper and older than my own existence. In 2010, when I had already turned 54 and the first strand of gray hair silvered my hair, the incident occurred that would finally reveal the truth to me. about why the Nahuales feared us. It was in October during a particularly foggy afternoon. He had left the food basket at our usual meeting point, but Tacho did not appear at the usual time.

I waited longer than usual, uneasy about his absence. In all these years, I had rarely missed our appointments. As I was about to leave, I heard a sound through the trees. It was not the fluid and silent movement that characterized Tacho, but something more hurried, almost frenetic. I put myself on alert thinking that it could be an injured animal or even worse, poachers. To my surprise, it was Lucifer who emerged from the thicket. The young nahual, now fully grown and almost as imposing as his father, showed obvious signs of agitation.

His golden fur was wounded, and his eyes shone with an intensity I’d never seen before. “What’s going on?” I asked, alarmed by his unusual behavior. Where is Tacho? Lucero emitted a series of short, high-pitched sounds, very different from the low growls he used to communicate. Then, with urgent gestures, he motioned for me to follow him. Without hesitation, I went into the forest behind him. Lucifer moved quickly, stopping occasionally to make sure I could keep up with him.

Despite my age, the years of hiking these mountains had kept me in good physical shape. But I still had a hard time keeping up with the nimble nahual. After almost half an hour of hurried walking, we arrived at a part of the forest that I recognized as close to the Tecutli, the sacred cave. Lucero stopped abruptly, sniffing the air with obvious nervousness. Then, lowering his body to keep himself hidden among the vegetation, he beckoned me to do the same.

Crouching behind a group of electos, we observe the clearing in front of the entrance to the cave. What I saw made my blood run cold. Tacho was there, but not alone. In front of him, keeping a prudent distance, but clearly in a position of confrontation, were three men whom I did not recognize as inhabitants of our town. They were dressed in household clothes, carried machetes on their belts and most alarmingly, one of them was holding a rifle. Poachers,” I muttered, feeling anger and fear mingle in my chest.

Lucero made a low sound, almost a moan, and then I noticed something I had missed. At the entrance to the cave, partially hidden in the shadows, lay Tacho’s companion. I could not see his condition clearly, but his motionless posture filled me with terrible apprehension. That’s it, I couldn’t finish the question. At that moment, one of the hunters took a step towards Tacho, pointing his rifle directly at him. He said something I couldn’t hear from our position, but his body language was unmistakable.

Threat, domination, contempt. Tacho remained motionless. His imposing figure, standing tall with dignity despite the obvious danger, showed no fear, but a kind of resignation mixed with something more intense, something that took me a moment to identify. It was pain, an ancient, deep pain, rooted in memories that I did not share. Without thinking twice, I came out of our high hiding place, shouting with all the authority that my years as foreman had conferred on me. They are on private property. The three men turned to me, surprised by my sudden appearance.

The one holding the rifle kept it pointed at Tacho, while the other two studied me with expressions that mixed surprise and suspicion. “Who are you?” one of them asked. a middle-aged man with a scar on his cheek. “Evaristo Mendoza, overseer of these lands,” I replied advancing with firm steps towards them. “And they are on private property, my property. We’re following a beast,” the man with the rifle said without lowering his weapon. “An animal that attacked our camp last night.

There’s no beast here, I lied with conviction. Only normal bush animals and whatever they are looking for, are not allowed to hunt in these lands. As he spoke, I strategically placed myself between them and Tacho. I could feel the presence of the nahual behind me, motionless, but alert. I also sensed that Lucero had moved silently through the vegetation, positioning herself in a way that she could surprise intruders if the situation called for it. Look, sir,” said the one with the scar in a conciliatory but firm tone.

We are after a large animal, something between puma and man according to the footprints. If you live around here, you should be concerned about having such a creature hanging around. “I know every inch of this mountain and every creature that inhabits it,” I replied. If there was something dangerous, I would be the first to know. The man with the rifle spat on the ground in a gesture of contempt. The old people around here tell stories about nahuales. We thought they were pure stories until we saw the footprints. And now this pointed vaguely to the cave, where Tacho’s companion lay in the shadows.

Only then, as I followed the direction of his gaze, could I clearly see the wound in his side, a gunshot wound. Anger boiled inside me, but I kept my composure. These men were dangerous, and any false move could end in tragedy for everyone. I don’t know what you think you saw,” I said, measuring every word, but I assure you that there is nothing supernatural about these mountains. Only common animals that are frightened by strangers, especially when they come armed.

“I shot a puma last night,” insisted the one with the rifle. “We followed him here on the trail of blood.” And that pointed back to the cave. It is not a normal puma. Whatever you have hurt, it is no longer here,” I replied, “And now I ask you to withdraw from my lands. They have no right to be here.” The three men exchanged glances assessing the situation. I represented the local authority and although they were armed, they knew that causing problems with a foreman would have consequences with the municipal authorities.

“We will return with proper permits,” warned the one with the scar. There’s something strange about these mountains and we’re going to find out what it is. Do what you consider necessary through official channels. Answered. In the meantime, I ask you to leave now. After a tense moment of silence, the man with the rifle finally lowered his gun. The three of them began to back away, keeping their eyes fixed on me and casting occasional glances into the cave. “Be careful, foreman,” said the one with the rifle before turning around.

Some beasts don’t show their true nature until it’s too late. I watched them walk away, making sure they were actually leaving and not just hiding to go back. Only when I was sure they were gone did I turn back to the cave. Tacho was already next to his partner, examining her wound with gestures of obvious concern. Lucifer emerged from her hiding place and joined them, making soft sounds that I interpreted as comfort or support. I approached cautiously, respecting his space, but offering my help with a wave of my hands.

Tacho looked at me and for the first time in our long years of friendship I saw genuine fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for his partner. “Let me see,” I said softly, pointing to the wound. “Maybe I can help.” Tacho hesitated for a moment, but then nodded slightly and stepped aside. I knelt beside the wounded nahual, carefully examining the lesion. The bullet had penetrated his side, but fortunately it seemed to have been a side impact without damaging vital organs.

“I need to clean this up,” I muttered more to myself than to them and stop the bleeding. I pulled out my handkerchief and pressed it against the wound to stop the bleeding. The nahual emitted a low moan, but did not try to move away. His eyes, the same golden amber as those of the stud and star, looked at me with a mixture of pain and what seemed to me a strange resignation. I’m going to bring medicines, I explained with gestures, plants to cure, but you have to carry it inside, keep it warm.

Between Tacho, Lucero and me, we managed to move the injured nahual inside the cave. We arranged her on a bed of dry leaves that seemed to function as her usual bed. Tacho lit a small fire in a circle of stones, evidently designed for that purpose, illuminating the interior of the cave with a warm, fluctuating glow. “I’ll be back soon,” I promised. “I won’t be long.” I sped home, my mind processing what had happened. The wound didn’t look life-threatening if treated properly, but he needed to act fast.

When I arrived, I looked among the medicinal plants that Carmen kept drying in the shed, ensino bark for infection, arnica for inflammation, malvabiscus to make a poultice. I also drank hydrogen peroxide, clean bandages and a small jar of mezcal to disinfect. Remedios found me hastily packing everything in my backpack. What’s going on?, he asked, noticing my urgency. I didn’t have time to make up elaborate stories. Someone needs help in the bush, I replied simply. A wound. My wife studied me with that piercing gaze that always seemed to see beyond my words.

Without asking any further questions, he headed to the kitchen and returned with a package wrapped in corn husks. Hot broth and tortillas, he explained. Whoever is injured will need to regain strength. I took the package with gratitude, moved once again by the intuition and kindness of this woman who had shared my life for so many years. Thank you, I said kissing his forehead briefly. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Go, she replied with a calm smile. And tell them best wishes from me.

I didn’t have time to reflect on what that diles might mean or how many remedies there were really about my friends in the woods. With my backpack full of supplies, I made my way back to the cave. When I arrived I found Tacho and Lucero anxiously watching the wounded Nahual. His breathing seemed more labored than before, and a cold sweat covered his forehead. Bad signs. I worked methodically cleaning the wound with hydrogen peroxide, diluted, applying the medicinal herbs, and finally carefully bandaging the area.

The nahual endured the treatment with stoic resistance, barely making sounds despite the obvious pain. While I was working, Tacho came over and, to my surprise, began to make more elaborate gestures than he usually used to communicate with me. He touched his own scars, old marks he’d never really noticed under his dense fur. Then he pointed in the direction in which the hunters had left and made a circular gesture as if covering a larger area. “You’ve been hurt before,” I interpreted.

They, others like them. Tacho nodded. Then, with anguished movements that I had never seen before, he began to act out a scene. He pointed to himself, but adopting a posture that suggested youth or smaller size. Then he indicated invisible figures around him. His family, I understood. He moved his hands imitating the act of cornering, encircling. Finally he made a sudden gesture towards the ground, like something falling. The horrible realization hit me like a fist in the stomach. “Did hunters kill your family?” I asked in a horrified whisper.

When you were young, Tacho confirmed with a solemn shake of his head. Then he touched his chest, pretended to lie down, and finally made a gesture of stealthily standing up. You pretended to be dead, I interpreted to survive. Again Tacho nodded. His eyes, usually inscrutable, shone with a mixture of ancient pain and something I can only describe as a deep weariness. Then he made a gesture that initially confused me. He opened the fingers of one hand, as if showing five, then four, three, two, gradually reducing them.

“What?” I asked, trying to understand. Five families, groups. Tacho nodded vigorously at the word groups. Then he repeated the gesture of reduction. 5 4 3 Understanding hit me hard. The groups of nahuales are disappearing, I said. There are fewer and fewer left. A low sound, almost a moan, escaped Tacho’s throat. It was the most eloquent confirmation he could offer. That’s why you showed me the others that day, I continued. The pieces fitting into my mind, the third group and the fourth.

It no longer exists. Tacho shook his head and then gestured westward, followed by the same falling motion he had used to represent death. The fourth group was married. I interpreted as they tried to do with you today. While processing this information, Tacho’s partner emitted a faint groan. I offered her water and some of the broth that Remedios had sent. To my relief, he accepted both, drinking cautiously, but with obvious necessity. They’re coming back, I said after a moment of silence.

Those men will not give up so easily. Tacho seemed to understand perfectly the seriousness of the situation. He exchanged a star-like look, a silent communication that seemed to contain important decisions. “They must move,” I suggested deeper into the mountain, at least until she can travel safely. But even as I said it, I realized the cruel reality. There was less and less safe space for them. Humans advanced from all directions with their roads, their antennas, their tourist projects. The world was narrowing for creatures like Tacho and his family.

I remained in the cave all night, watching over the wounded nahual and changing her bandages when necessary. The fever rose during the first few hours, but towards dawn it began to subside, a hopeful sign that his body was fighting the infection. During those long waking hours, Tacho remained by my side and at some point, when the fire had reduced to embers and silence enveloped the cave, he began to communicate with me in a deeper way than ever before.

With deliberate gestures, he told me fragments of his story. He showed me how, as a young Nahual, he had witnessed the slaughter of his original group, how he had wandered alone for years before finding his future mate, how they had established their territory in these mountains, far from the largest human settlements, looking for a place to live in peace. He explained to me through his limited, but expressive body language why he had accepted me that first day when I offered him food instead of threats.

To him, I represented a possibility he had thought lost, that of peaceful coexistence between our species. And finally, with gestures that broke my heart, he revealed to me what really motivated his fear of humans. It wasn’t our physical strength, or our weapons, or even our superior numbers. It was something deeper, more fundamental. Our ability to destroy unnecessarily, to fear what was different, to attack what we didn’t understand. “They’re not afraid of us because we’re stronger,” I murmured, finally understanding, “but because they know what we’re capable of.

Tacho nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting an understanding that transcended language barriers. At dawn we heard voices in the distance. The hunters had returned as promised, but this time they were not coming alone. From the cave entrance, partially hidden by vegetation, we could see a larger group approaching. The three men from the day before, accompanied by four others, all armed. They are approaching from the main trail, Tacho whispered. We must move them now. Carefully, but urgently.

We helped Tacho’s partner to her feet. Her wound seemed to be better, but it was still weak. Between Tacho and Lucero they held her, preparing to flee to the deepest part of the forest. “I’ll distract you,” I told them. “I’ll give you time to get away.” Tacho stared at me and at that moment I felt that he was communicating something important to me. He placed his huge hand on my chest, a gesture we had shared before. Belonging, connection, commitment. “I know,” I replied. Trust me.

I left the cave and took a side path to intercept the group of hunters before they got too close. I found them in a small clearing, consulting what appeared to be a rudimentary map of the area. “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said firmly, appearing before them. “I see that you have returned despite my warning. The man with the scar, apparently the leader of the group, stepped forward. We have permission from the municipal authority.” He said, showing me a paper to investigate sightings of dangerous animals in the area.

I took the document and examined it briefly. It was authentic, signed by the municipal president, but it was full of generalities and did not give them specific right to hunt on private property. This permit is for communal lands, I pointed out, handing back the paper. Not for my property. The boundaries are clearly marked. Listen, foreman,” said one of the new men in a conciliatory tone. In other words, we are not looking for trouble, we just want to make sure that there is no danger to the nearby communities and I assure you that there is not.

I replied, “I’ve lived in these mountains all my life. I know every nook and cranny, every creature that inhabits them. If there was anything dangerous, I’d be the first to take action.” “So how do you explain the footprints?” asked the man with the rifle. And the blood and that creature we saw yesterday in the cave. What they saw was probably a wounded puma. I replied calmly. And it’s not here anymore. It’s probably moved north, away from the inhabited areas. The men exchanged skeptical glances.

It was clear that they didn’t fully believe me, but also that my position as a respected foreman made them doubt. Why do you protect it? The one with the scar finally asked. If you really saw what we saw yesterday, you know that it’s not a normal animal. I protect these mountains and everything that lives in them. I replied, that’s my job and my responsibility. And part of that responsibility is to prevent unjustified hunts based on superstitions or misunderstandings. “We’ll come back with more men and better permissions,” warned the scar hunter, evidently frustrated by my stubbornness.

There is something about these mountains that is not natural and sooner or later we will find it. Do what you think is necessary,” I replied standing firm. But in the meantime, I ask you to respect the boundaries of my property. Finally, after a tense exchange of glances, the men turned and began to walk away. I didn’t lose sight of them until they disappeared into the trees, taking the path that led to the village. Only then did I allow myself to relax the posture, feeling the tension leave my muscles.

It had been barely 24 hours since the initial incident, but I felt as if years had passed. The weight of what was at stake, the safety of Tacho and his family pressed on my shoulders like never before. I went back into the forest, following a different path than usual. He knew that Tacho would not have returned to the cave. It was too risky. He should have carried his wounded companion and star to higher and less accessible areas of the mountain.

After almost an hour of walking, I found what I was looking for. Three stones stacked in a specific pattern that Tacho and I had used for years as a sign. Next to the stones, a small bouquet of bent lollipop pointed in a certain direction. It was his way of guiding me. I followed the directions, advancing cautiously and attentively, looking for the following signs. The road became steeper and steeper, entering parts of the mountains where I rarely ventured. Finally, after another hour of ascent, I spotted the entrance to a small cave partially hidden by a rocky ledge.

“Tacho! I called softly from a safe distance. It’s me, Evaristo.” For a few moments there was no response. Then the imposing figure of Tacho emerged from the shadows. He looked tired, with an expression of concern that I had never seen him in all our years of friendship. They’re gone for now, I informed him as I approached. But they will return. How is she? Tacho led me into the cave. It was a smaller space than their usual shelter, but offered good protection from the weather and prying eyes.

His companion was lying on an improvised bed of leaves with a star, watching attentively next to him. To my relief, he seemed to be better than the night before. His eyes were more alert and his breathing was regular. I knelt next to her and checked the wound carefully. The swelling had subsided considerably and there were no signs of infection. Medicinal plants were fulfilling their function. He’s recovering well, I said, both to reassure Tacho and to express my own relief.

Cyberon will need time to fully heal. As I exchanged the bandages for clean ones I had brought with me, I reflected on the situation. Hunters wouldn’t give up easily, especially now that they thought they’d seen something extraordinary. And while I could protect my land, I had no authority over the communal areas surrounding my property. “Sa can’t stay here,” I muttered. “More for myself than for them. It’s not safe. Tacho seemed to understand my concerns. With deliberate movements, he approached the cave wall and began to draw lines in the damp earth, just as he had done years before.

He drew the outline of the mountains we knew, marked our village, my property, and then drew a line that stretched northeastward, into regions so remote that even I, with all my experience as a foreman, hardly knew. Do you want to go there?, I asked, pointing to the address. Are there others like you in those mountains? Tacho nodded slowly. Then, with a gesture that was heartbreaking in its simplicity, he erased the mark that represented his family in our mountains and redrew it in that distant territory.

I understood then what I was deciding. To leave the home they had built for decades, to leave behind the territory they knew, the shelters they had created, the paths they had traveled countless times. Everything to survive. Are you sure? I asked, feeling a lump in my throat. It’s a long and dangerous journey, especially with her injured. Tacho’s gaze at me contained an unshakable resolve. There was no alternative and we both knew it. The hunters would probably return with more men and better weapons.

News of strange creatures in the mountains would spread. Sooner or later someone would find them. Tacho made another gesture, pointing to me and then to the drawing, as if asking if I knew the way to those distant mountains. “I know the way,” I admitted. “Oh, but there are areas I’ve never been. However, I have maps. I can study them and help them plan the safest route. During the following days I dedicated myself to preparing everything necessary for the trip of Tacho and his family.

I carefully studied topographic maps of the region, identifying routes that offered better forest cover and less likelihood of encounters with humans. I gathered supplies, non-perishable food, medicine for Tacho’s companion, even a tarp that they could use as temporary shelter during the trip. Every day he visited the cave where they hid, bringing fresh food and checking the wound of the Ahahual. His recovery was progressing remarkably well, showing a healing capacity that far exceeded that of humans. At this rate it would be strong enough to travel in just over a week.

During these visits, Tacho showed me more aspects of his culture and knowledge than he had ever shared with me before. He taught me to recognize rare medicinal plants that only grew in certain microclimates of the mountains. he explained to me through gestures and drawings on Earth how his species communicated over great distances using sounds that the human ear could not detect. He showed me techniques for moving in the woods without leaving a trace, skills that he and his family had honed over generations.

It was as if, with our separation imminent, he wanted to make sure that I understood as much as possible about his world. A final exchange of knowledge between two beings who, despite their differences, had found common ground in mutual respect and friendship. One afternoon, while we were preparing the last details of the trip, Lucero did something unexpected. He approached me with what appeared to be a small object in his hands. As I held them out towards me, I saw that he was holding a stone carved with symbols similar to those I had observed in the tecutli, the sacred cave.

The stone emitted a faint glow beside it when the light touched it from a certain angle. Is it for me?, I asked, surprised by the gesture. Lucero nodded, carefully placing the stone in my palm. Tacho, watch us, made a gesture touching first the stone and then his own heart, followed by a circular movement that encompassed his entire family and me. A bond, I interpreted, something that will keep us connected even if they are far away. Emotion overwhelmed me and for a moment I could not find adequate words to express what I felt.

This object, this stone carved with ancient symbols, represented a trust and honor that few, if any, humans had ever received. “I will keep it always,” I promised, closing my hand around the stone, as you will always keep a place in my memory. The day of departure came with the first full moon of November 2012. Tacho’s companion was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey, although she still showed signs of weakness. Lucero had grown remarkably in recent years, becoming a strong and agile young nahual who would be of great help during the journey.

We meet at dawn in a clearing near the temporary cave. He had brought with me a last shipment of provisions, dried fruits, seeds, strips of smoked meat that would serve him during the first stages of the journey. I also gave them the map I had prepared, clearly marking the recommended route and the possible dangers to avoid. “It’s a trip of about two weeks,” I explained, pointing to the map. This way they stay in these elevations and avoid these valleys where there are human settlements should arrive without setbacks.

Tacho studied the map carefully, memorizing every detail with that extraordinary ability that had always amazed me. Then he carefully folded it and put it in a kind of rudimentary bag that he carried tied to his body. The moment of farewell had arrived and with it a deep sense of loss. For nearly 30 years, Tacho and his family had been a constant in my life, a precious secret I had jealously guarded, a link to something older and wiser than my own existence.

“Take care,” I said, feeling that the words were terribly inadequate. “And if one day it’s safe to come back,” I left the sentence unfinished, knowing in my heart that I would probably never see them again. The world was changing too fast. The wild spaces were shrinking year after year and creatures like Tacho had fewer and fewer places to exist in peace. Tacho approached me and not in a gesture that surprised me because of his human nature, he placed his huge hand on my shoulder. Her eyes, those ancient amber eyes that had seen so much pain and so much beauty, conveyed to me a message more eloquent than any words.

gratitude, respect, and something else, something I can only describe as a deep connection between two beings who, despite belonging to different worlds, had found common ground in mutual understanding. Her partner and Lucero approached as well, each briefly touching my arm in a gesture of farewell. Then, without further delay, the family turned to the path that would lead them to their new destination. Before disappearing into the thick vegetation, Tacho stopped and looked back one last time.

Thank you, I interpreted in his look. Goodbye, friend. And so, as quietly as they had existed in these mountains for decades, they disappeared into the morning mist like spirits of the earth returning to the mystery from which they had emerged. I stood in the clearing for a long time after they left, feeling the weight of the carved stone in my pocket and that of the memories in my heart. Finally, as the sun began to rise over the treetops, I made my way back home.

Today, 11 years later, at 73 years old, I still occasionally leave fruit and tortillas on a hollow trunk in the mountains. Sometimes they disappear during the night. Perhaps they are taken by raccoons or badgers. Perhaps they simply rot and integrate back into the earth. Or maybe, just maybe, it is a sign that the silent promise we made under that old Sabino is still alive, transcending distance and time. For 40 years I fed a being who never attacked me, who showed me his world and entrusted me with his most valuable secrets.

A being who in the end only wanted the same thing as any family, to live, to protect his own and to be left alone. And now I understand perfectly why the Nahual fear us. Not because we are physically stronger or technologically more advanced. They fear us because over generations they have experienced our ability to destroy what we do not understand, to fear what is different, to conquer instead of coexisting. They fear us because we forget that the earth is alive, while they never forget it.

Because we destroy out of fear, while they survive despite their fear of us. The nahuales are not legends or superstitions. They are living reminders that there was a time when humans were not the only intelligent beings who walked these lands and that perhaps we should not be. Every night, before going to sleep, I hold in my hands that carved stone that Lucero gave me. Under a certain light. The symbols seem to change, to tell different stories and in those moments I feel that in some way I am connected to them wherever they are, because there are truths in this mountain range that are only revealed to those who know how to look with respect.

And I had the privilege of contemplating one of the most beautiful and tragic, that the guardians of the mountain are still there watching us from the shadows, waiting for the day when we remember that we share this land that does not belong to us, but that we belong to it, as Tacho taught me so many years ago touching the trunk of the juniper tree and then his own chest. This is my home. I exist here. Perhaps one day when we have learned to see with different eyes, when we have remembered how to listen to the language of the forest and respect its ancient inhabitants, the Nahuales will be able to return.

Maybe one day they will stop fearing us. But until then I will continue to leave my offering in the hollow trunk as a reminder, as a promise, as a small light of hope in a world that seems to forget its deepest roots too quickly. Because for 40 years I fed a nahual and what I learned from him changed my life forever.