The Conjurer and Other Azorean Tales

by Darrell Kastin

  Maria Leonor remained in her room, but could be seen at all hours peering from her window at the ocean. People walked past and looked up to see her staring at the waves in the distance, at the sunlight playing upon the water.

  Women crossed themselves and men shook their heads. “Coitadinha—poor thing! Look at her. You’d think her lover had been lost at sea.”

  At night, Maria could be heard singing—the notes and words exotic and unknown to the ears of those who listened, although everyone who heard recognized the sounds of longing. The night air was filled with the sound of her voice and the murmurs of waves and currents, the silvery flash of fish and dolphins swimming across the channel—all the creatures to which she sang, imploring them to take her, to swim to her side.

  The months passed and Maria Leonor’s belly grew swollen with her mysterious child, who, it was said, swam unceasingly like a fish caught in the tiny sea within her womb.

  Alicia Mendes, a woman from São Jorge or Graciosa who had assisted in a number of difficult pregnancies, was summoned by Senhora Almeida to stay by her daughter’s side and assist with the birth.

  Caring for the girl was not an easy task. She wept almost constantly and thrashed about when she slept. Sometimes she sat listless and sullen, watching the rolling sea from her bedroom window, as she moaned and whimpered throughout the day and night.

  Alicia Mendes suggested that Maria stay in another room of the house, one that did not face the shore, for the sea, she said, upset the girl. But when they tried to move her Maria screamed, tearing at her hair and threatening to gouge out her own eyes, so they quickly gave up on the idea.

  The only thing that appeared to calm her was the constant application of fresh seawater, brought up to the room by one of the children, and squeezed from a sponge over the girl’s writhing body. Then Maria Leonor’s breathing once more became regular, and her sobbing would grow quiet.

  Finally the hour had come. Alicia Mendes worked feverishly on the girl, who now pushed away the warm towels and cried out for more water instead—neither hot water nor drinking water, but cold seawater.

  “More water,” Alicia said to the servants who were stationed outside the door, waiting for her orders. “Quickly!” She kept them hopping down to the shore, fetching bucketful after bucketful.

  Maria Leonor appeared to be in excruciating pain but calmed down and was nearly silent, making only strange gurgling sounds and moving wildly about the bed, by then soaked with seawater and sweat.

  Alicia Mendes was sure the baby would come at any moment, and she prepared everything in order to deliver the child.

  She turned her back for one moment to grab a towel and—before she knew it or could do anything about it—Maria Leonor rose out of the bed, grabbed hold of the sheets, and fled through the door.

  “How can she run?” Alicia said in disbelief. “And in her condition?”

  The house was instantly thrown into an uproar. There were cries and shouts from the women, the silent continuous prayers of Maria Leonor’s grandmother, and expressions of helplessness from the servants and men of the family. Everyone filed out of the house after Maria Leonor, except for Senhor Almeida, who proceeded to finish his midday meal in glum silence, as if nothing had happened.

  Maria Leonor ran down to the water. As she passed by, activity on the streets came to a standstill—until the family rushed past, and then everyone followed to see what would happen next.

  They reached the shore, but there was no sign of her. Then someone shouted. “Look, over there!” He pointed at the waves. Maria Leonor rolled about in the water. She dove suddenly and after a moment surfaced again. Several men waded into the water. Her family begged her to come out, shouting that she and the baby would drown.

  Maria instead turned on her back. Her legs came up out of the water, and she gave a short, piercing cry as something silvery flashed and disappeared between her legs, sleek and agile as a fish.

  There was an audible gasp from her family, friends, and neighbors who stood helplessly on the shore.

  “What is it?” someone murmured.

  “A fish?” said another.

  “Dear Mother of God!”

  Several women fainted.

  “Looks like a dolphin.”

  “A devil.”

  In a moment there were others in the water—fish, dolphins, and more, all churning up the sea. Maria Leonor turned around and waved good-bye to her family, then swam with the other creatures out to sea, as the stunned villagers looked on.

  In the distance, Miguel Carneiro’s boat could be seen heading out to sea for the first time since he had come back talking about a girl who swam with dolphins.

  IN THE SMALL FISHING VILLAGE OF POVOAÇÃO, ON THE ISLAND OF SÃO Miguel, no one had to ask who was the best fisherman. Miguel Luís Reis always brought in the largest catch and, according to Domingos Braga, who supplied most of the fishermen with drink, it was all because of the witches.

  “He is charmed,” Domingos Braga would tell you. “Ever since the night the witches took him away, the fish practically leap aboard his boat.”

  It was several years back when Miguel Luís Reis began to notice strange things about his boat.

  For seven days he had left his house and walked down the stone street to the waterfront only to find his boat, not as he had left it, but moved, lying at an odd angle, even completely turned around, facing the wrong way, as if to taunt or mock him. There might be something missing, or a foot of water sloshing inside the hull; his tackle would be in a mess, and his nets tangled. But that wasn’t all. Miguel often discovered things inside the boat that hadn’t been there the day before: a pile of fine sand, a suspicious piece of cloth, or a snag of unfamiliar leaves—and always from plants that he had never seen growing on the island.

  He crept to his boat late one night, and again the following night, but to his surprise found no sign of whoever was using him as the butt of this practical joke. What could it mean except that, in the hours after midnight and before dawn, witches were using his boat for their own purposes?

  “I will not be made a fool of by witches,” Miguel Luís Reis declared, stomping his foot on the beach. “I’m going to put an end to this once and for all.”

  Although Miguel Luís was afraid of what the witches might do if he confronted them, he also wasn’t about to permit his boat to be confiscated for their nefarious uses. After all, a man has a special relationship with his boat. Sailing alone on the vast ocean day after day, a man and his boat developed a close bond. He depended on the vessel to return him safely to port, and he learned how to maneuver her with expert skill, so that the boat responded to his slightest movement.

  He decided to lay a trap and catch the culprits.

  He dressed warmly, wrapped in his heavy coat, and once again sneaked down to his boat late at night, carrying a bottle of aguardente. He lay down in the bow and covered himself with the tarp that was usually stowed there, which concealed him quite nicely. He peered out and kept watch for any sign of the witches.

  It was cold and uncomfortable, but Miguel was used to it. After all, he made his living on the sea. The hours passed slowly. Miguel wished he could light a fire for warmth, but of course that was impossible. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

  “I’m sure to catch the witches,” he said to himself. He would surprise them when they showed up and, with luck, they would fly off, back to their lair—wherever that might be. At least he hoped they would flee. The only thing he carried for protection, other than a stick, was a branch of laurel leaves, since they were said to be best for warding off evil.

  After many cold hours, the calm of night was broken by the sound of laughter—a shrill, unnatural laughter like the horrible shriek of the old-time carts one still saw at the time, the kind with wooden axles, left ungreased by their owners to annoy the world with the tortured scraping of wood against wood.

  But this was worse. The terrible sound jarred Miguel awake, his eyes opened wide in fright.<
br />
  The first thing he noticed was that the boat was moving. Quickly. It wasn’t sailing, however. He’d spent enough time on the water to know when the boat was riding the swells and when it was not. This was not sailing. It was flying.

  He gasped and peered over the prow into the dark water. The boat was soaring over the ocean, several feet above the water, and at a dizzying speed.

  Three witches, pale as chalk and hideous as sin, huddled in the stern of the boat, laughing and cackling and making a grand time of it.

  An old cauldron, blacker than a moonless night, sat before them, and into this they kept dropping God-only-knows-what, retrieved from the deep pockets of their clothing, which hung in tatters, a hodgepodge of dizzying grays, whites, blacks, and the nameless shades in between.

  They took turns stirring their brew, uttering words that to Miguel’s ears were shrieks, croaks, and curses, as the cauldron hissed and boiled each time the witches dropped something new in it.

  Miguel drank from his bottle, hoping that the spirits he drank would shatter the nightmarish vision before his eyes. But the visions persisted.

  Amid the cackles and shouts of the witches, Miguel determined that they had reached the Arabian sands, then India, Timor, China, and Japan—where they picked up a very black and glowering cat, as large as a small dog, with eyes that gleamed bright yellow—before the boat swung round and they came up to the Island of the Moon: Madagascar.

  Miguel recognized each of these places because one of the witches—the tallest, leanest one—announced every arrival, as though she were some supernatural tour guide.

  Each pronouncement was followed by yet another fit of coarse laughter.

  The boat slowed momentarily, then Miguel sighted the mountains of the Horn of Africa. There the witches screeched one word over and over, like the name of a delicacy they wished to savor: Adamastor! Adamastor! Adamastor!

  Scared and shivering as he peered from beneath the tarp, Miguel stared at the ocean below and saw a towering shape materialize in the darkness. He heard the roar of the monster whose bellows shook the world. The witches laughed, hiccupped, and burped.

  Then, the boat sped on.

  Miguel was sure that things were about to go from bad to worse; there was nothing to prevent the witches from sailing the enchanted boat to the moon, if they wished. Or perhaps they would discover him and turn him into a toad or a goat.

  He pulled the tarp over his head, trembling and shaking like a fish cast out of the water.

  When he next awoke, Miguel took some time before daring to stick his head outside the tarp and look around.

  With a start, he realized that the witches were gone. The boat was no longer floating above the water. It wasn’t sailing, either. It lay stranded, listing slightly, on a sandy stretch of beach. With an audible sigh of relief, he cast aside the tarp and took stock of his situation.

  A quick look around informed him that he was not on São Miguel, his home. Instead, he had washed up on the sands of Praia Formosa, on the island of Santa Maria.

  He shook his head clear, climbed out of the boat, and staggered a step or two.

  At that precise moment he came face to face with Ana Sofia Moura.

  Now and then, Ana Sofia enjoyed a solitary stroll along the beach before going to work. She especially liked to come to the beach after a good storm, and the previous night had brought the year’s fiercest storm so far. She loved to be the first to make footsteps in the still wet sand, as if no one had ever walked there before, knowing that a few hours later those same footsteps would be gone, as if they never were. Sometimes she found something that had washed up on the sand or the rocks: a shell, a piece of wood, or a plastic bottle—none with notes inside—but this was the first time she had found a man.

  Ana Sofia worked at the village council office in nearby Almagreira. She looked to be in her twenties, if one was forced to assign an age to her. Slender, with fair hair and skin, she possessed a remarkable face. Within the depths of her eyes, eons swirled like water coursing through the deepest wells. Bright rays of childhood sparkled in the expression of her lips. Wit, the joyousness of life, wisdom, playfulness, and a touch of mischief were revealed in her smile. A radiance emanated from Ana Sofia’s every pore; a radiance that Miguel felt as much as he saw.

  Ana Sofia watched as Miguel climbed out of his boat. She was surprised, not startled, and instantly curious.

  “Good morning,” he said, in a voice rough as the surf.

  “I’ve never seen a man washed up by a storm,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not from here.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I’m from Povoação. São Miguel.” He didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t very well tell her about the witches. He scratched his head. “I must have drifted off course.”

  “Have you eaten?” she said. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

  Miguel smoothed out his shirt and jacket, which of course he had slept in. He was certain he looked a sight. He hadn’t eaten since the day before, and was now quite hungry. “Is there a place to eat here?”

  She led him to her car and drove to Vila do Porto. They ate in a café. She phoned her office to say she would be late—a family emergency. Miguel ate some rolls and fresh cheese, and had several cups of coffee. Ana Maria just had coffee.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. For all he knew this woman was a lingering manifestation the witches had conjured the night before. He swallowed several times, clearing his throat as if to speak but, when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. He stared at her as if she had appeared out of the sea foam.

  Ana Sofia smiled. Miguel tried looking at her hair, but then wondered what it felt like, what it smelled like. So he looked instead at her clothes. She wore a red print blouse, a cream sweater, and slacks. His eyes widened at the sight of her breasts. He quickly turned away. He stared at her arm resting on the table. He felt his head spin. The witches, he thought. They must have left a spell on me. An enchantment. Either that, or the woman who sat before him was an apparition.

  “I guess I should get back,” he said. Although it was the last thing he wanted to say. He wanted to ask her about her life, to sit and talk for hours.

  He began to reach for his wallet, but Ana Maria had already paid the bill. He realized he hadn’t even brought his wallet. He had no money.

  “Thank you,” he stammered, his face and neck turning bright red.

  There was an awkward pause, a long moment in which everything seemed to hang in suspension. Again, he gazed at her delicate hands, which rested on the table, then reached to touch her empty coffee cup and saucer.

  “I’ll take you back to your boat,” Ana Sofia said. “You can sail back home.”

  He nodded.

  When they reached Praia Formosa, Ana Sofia didn’t drop him off and leave. She walked with him back to the boat. A fine rain began falling as they walked.

  Miguel touched the side of the boat, as if he weren’t sure whether it was real, or might vanish like a mirage. He reached in and pulled back the tarp.

  “My God,” he shouted, in astonishment.

  Ana Sofia gazed down at the hull of the boat. “Fish,” she said, with a shrug.

  “I didn’t fish last night,” he said. “And I have never brought in that much fish. Ever.”

  There were several very large baskets filled high with fish, but of such a variety as he had never seen before.

  “That’s a lot?” she asked, innocently.

  “More than I see in a whole week of fishing.”

  The sun broke through the clouds and shone where they stood.

  It had to be the witches, he thought. But why?

  “Ah, the witches are dancing!” Ana Sofia suddenly exclaimed.

  “What?” Miguel said. He stared at her. Did she know?

  “Look,” she pointed up at the sky.

  He looked, dumbfounded.

  “You know what they say when it�
�s raining and sunny—that the witches are dancing.”

  It was indeed sunny, and raining too.

  Ana Sofia watched as Miguel pushed his boat out beyond the waves, set the small sail, and steered himself back to Povoação.

  Miguel waved at her and Ana Sofia waved back. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

  Miguel sat in his boat, filled to the gunwales with fish, and watched as the woman he’d met on the beach after a night with the witches grew smaller, not looking away until she had disappeared from view.

  A week later Miguel found cause to return to Santa Maria. He made another trip shortly after that, and several more during the next few months. A year later Miguel and Ana Sofia were engaged.

  The night before they were married, Miguel finally told her about the witches. She listened quietly, nodded, and smiled.

  Ana Sofia didn’t say a word. Miguel wasn’t sure she believed him, but ever after, whenever the subject came up, Ana Sofia was quick to note that it was the witches who had brought them together.

  IN THE TINY AZOREAN VILLAGE OF SANTA INÊS, ON THE ISLAND OF PICO, no one could remember when anyone had ever been accused of stealing more than a chicken or a knife. Nor did anyone remember when the cell in the city hall had ever been inhabited, other than by an occasional drunk. However, Sonia de Melo was a thief who stole from everyone, and worse yet, stole what she could not be arrested for. She took what wasn’t hers and coveted these ill-gotten acquisitions, guarding them as if they were more precious than her own children.

  When Dona Maria de Neves had a miscarriage, who stole every moment of pain and agony from the poor woman? Who broke out in a sweat, crying and swearing? Sonia de Melo. And when old man Norigudo got his leg amputated it was Sonia again who, as if drunk on aguardente, yelled and kicked up such a fuss.

  Sonia’s husband, José Vasco, struggled to comfort and soothe the poor woman, who suffered every calamity known to the islands, though he never understood how or why she suffered these terrible ills.

  He wistfully remembered the young woman he had fallen in love with. She had always been a sensitive, even passionate girl, but it wasn’t until some time after their marriage that she had become obsessed with pain and suffering as if these were all there was to be gotten from life.