The Witch's Market

by Mingmei Yip

  I hit my head. “Yes, of course! I’m Eileen Chen. I’m surprised to see you two again.”

  The two exchanged a meaningful glance.

  The younger brother, Ed, rounded his eyes. “Oh, Eileen . . . maybe you haven’t heard . . .”

  “Heard what?”

  “Something very strange . . . a couple of days ago . . .”

  Something in his tone made me anxious. “What happened?”

  “A man and a dog. Lhasa Apso, a rare breed. We were just walking along and right before our eyes . . . the road seemed to crack open and they fell in.”

  “Who?”

  “The man and the dog.”

  “You saw this?”

  “Yes, a woman saw it too.”

  “What happened?”

  “The earth closed back up. It was as if they’d never been there. It was terrible. Hard to believe—but we both saw it.”

  “This really happened?”

  “Yes—about twenty blocks north of here in a deserted park.”

  His brother went on to explain. “I think the man is homeless, so there’s no one to report him missing. There’s been nothing in the papers or on TV either.”

  “Hmmm . . . Maybe you should report it to the police. . . .”

  Kyle shook his head. “They’ll probably think we’re just crazy. Or think we did it and arrest us.”

  “Arrest you? But you didn’t do anything.”

  Both Kyle and Ed nodded emphatically.

  “Exactly. You know us, but the police don’t. The police here have a bad reputation. Better to stay away from them,” said Kyle.

  “Anyway, we’ll be gone from here soon and who knows if we’ll ever be back,” Ed added.

  “What about the woman who also saw it—maybe she reported it to the police?”

  “I don’t know. We think the dog was probably hers, but instead of trying to look for it, she just hurried away.”

  Kyle took out a pen, wrote on a small piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Here’s our hotel number if you want to call us. Maybe we’ll run into each other again. It’s a small world, after all. Good to see you again, Eileen. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  With an odd feeling lodged in my chest, I continued to think as I finished my breakfast. Every day I spent on this out-of-the-way island made it seem stranger. The brothers themselves seemed odd. I half suspected that they’d made the whole thing up, but why would they bother?

  Because of Laolao’s profession, I’d grown up around weird people who told weird stories. Some of the stories may even have been true—but normal people didn’t believe them. I knew from experience that there is another realm, a metaphysical one. Maybe that’s where the man and dog ended up. Somehow my instincts told me what the brothers had seen was real. Things happened on the island that didn’t happen back in San Francisco. Why, I had no idea.

  I finished my healthy fruit breakfast and sat for a while trying to make sense of everything. Finally I gave up trying to figure things out and decided I would take up Sabrina Sanchez’s invitation to visit her.

  Sabrina’s home was perched on a pleasant hill by the sea. It was one of a row of wooden houses similarly decorated with white walls, green roofs, and yellow fences. The small yards were filled with flowers and lush vegetation, creating a storybook atmosphere. I climbed the hill slowly until I reached the middle house that bore a small sign that said SANCHEZ.

  After a few knocks, the door swung open, revealing my new friend’s face, still slightly puffy from her earlier indulgences at the party. She was wearing full makeup as if she’d been expecting visitors. I wondered if she was one of those women who would never let herself be seen without makeup. Seeing me, she smiled expansively, revealing the deep wrinkles beside her mouth.

  “Eileen! What wind blew you here?”

  “It’s a very pleasant day, so I decided to pay you a visit. Besides, I’m a girl who keeps her promises.”

  “Good, I’m bored and was hoping an honorable guest would arrive to keep me company and entertain me. Please come in, Eileen.”

  I followed her into the living room, which was small but nicely decorated with oil portraits that must have been of Sabrina when she was young and fresh, as well as peaceful landscapes and rural scenes. Her furniture looked antique, or at least old and well-crafted. The carpet was large with a faded floral pattern, and a yellowed leopard skin was placed in front of the fireplace. Glazed figures struck ballet poses inside a glass-fronted cabinet. A bookcase had old leather-bound volumes on the bottom shelves and brightly colored best-sellers on the top. In a corner, a white baby grand piano sat silently, as if awaiting caressing fingers. I suspected that the cozy house was to help her survive a life that was all but unbearable.

  I was surprised. The décor was feminine but without the overstatement of Sabrina’s dress and makeup.

  “Sabrina, your house is beautiful!”

  She raised her fingers, still covered with rings, to smooth her black-dyed hair. “Thanks. Most of what you see is antique, including me . . . hahaha!”

  She was wearing a long blue floral dress with a matching long-tasseled shawl. Perhaps she hoped that the slightly undulating tassels, together with her dangling gold earrings, would animate her tired face and body.

  Not knowing how to respond, I smiled. “You look lovely. Where’s your friend from the party?”

  “Oh”—she made a face—“you mean my puppy. Diego has wandered off somewhere. I’m not his mother nor his nanny, so he’s not my problem. Here in my house, people freely come and go, like vaginas in a whorehouse. Ooopps!” She rounded her artificially lashed eyes. “Sorry about my vulgarity. Anyway, he’ll come back if he needs me, or if I want him. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  My hostess returned bearing a tea tray with a pitcher of iced tea, glasses, a bottle of brandy, and two little bowls filled with flan. Soon I was sipping iced tea and taking little bites of flan with the small spoon Sabrina provided. She, however, took little interest in the tea or the sweets, instead consuming the brandy rather rapidly.

  I couldn’t help but stare at the brandy bottle. “Sabrina,” I said, and pointed to her glass.

  She cast me a sad glance. “This is me. You must have noticed that during Alfredo’s party I drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney.” She took another gulp. “Like many women of a certain age, I drink to forget.”

  Forget what I dared not ask, fearing a swarm of snakes would dart out between her brightly painted lips to poison me.

  “But, Sabrina, your health . . .”

  She laughed. “Ha. Health. For what? To get back my youth?”

  “You’re still beautiful and you would be even more beautiful if you took good care of yourself.”

  Also, I thought, if you got rid of your gaudy clothes and makeup.

  Her response surprised me. “Maybe I drink to kill myself on purpose.”

  “Surely you don’t want to kill yourself!”

  “All right, all right.” She turned to stare at the vast expanse of sea outside the window for a few seconds, then said, “You know, I had many lovers.”

  I cast her an inquisitive look. “Yes, you told me that. You’ve been fortunate.” What else could I say?

  “Fortunate?” She flung her head back and laughed. “Ha, you bet, all sorts of rich men used to line up to ask me out, politicians, rich businessmen, gangsters, officers, athletes. . . .”

  “So . . . was Alfredo one of these men?” I ventured to ask.

  “Of course.”

  She walked to the window and gestured for me to join her. “Look over there—what do you see?”

  I strained my eyes. “Stones?”

  “Gravestones. After I die, I’ll be buried there.”

  I felt I should say something comforting. “But you’re not old. . . .”

  “No? I’m older than you think! Soon I will join my daughter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pointed. “Over there, there’s wher
e she’s buried.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I remembered that she’d told me her only daughter had died and her son disappeared. “How did that happen?”

  “She looked like you, at least to me. You two could have passed as sisters, but of course she didn’t have dark eyes like yours; her eyes were green like mine.”

  I doubted I really looked like her white daughter, and I certainly didn’t want to be compared to a dead person.

  She ignored my discomfort and went on in a different direction. “Eileen, my liver is giving out. But I’m not afraid. . . .”

  “Oh, Sabrina, stop this. Chinese don’t like to hear bad-luck talk.”

  She was silent for a moment. Just then I saw a framed picture nearby—my friend smiling and holding a dog.

  I pointed to the picture, and asked, “A Lhasa Apso?”

  “Yes, a rare breed.”

  I wondered if this was the same dog that had been swallowed up into the earth.

  “It had an accident.”

  Before I could say anything, she went on. “It was my daughter’s dog. She inherited it from Alfredo’s wife, Penelope.”

  “How come?”

  “Alfredo gave the dog to his wife as a gift. But she was too lazy and arrogant to take care of a pet, so he gave it to my daughter instead.”

  “It was swallowed up by the earth?”

  Sabrina’s eyes bulged in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “There was a man, too, right?”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I was told by two young men I met in a café.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “That’s it. I’m curious about what happened, but it has nothing to do with me. I’m only a tourist here and will go back to the States soon.”

  “Maybe you’ll stay, you never know.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Nothing is for sure in life, except death—and evil.”

  “Sabrina, you are a pessimist.”

  “The world is filled with evil forces; witches know about them and can control them.”

  “You know about this? Do you know any witches?”

  Now she looked at me curiously. “Are you a witch too? Is that why you’re interested!?”

  “I’m here to find material about witches. I’m a professor and plan to write a book.”

  “Hmmm . . . a witch disguised as a professor!” She cast me a sharp glance. “I bet you have your own gift. You should learn to use it.”

  “Why do you think that I have a gift?”

  “You can see things, just like my daughter.”

  “What did she see?”

  “She saw everything. Not like those who claim to be witches now.”

  “If she saw everything, did she even foresee her own death?”

  “She probably did, but she never told me. I guess because she didn’t want to break my heart in advance. Who wants to know anyway?”

  “How did she die?”

  “Drowned in a lake. She was an underwater photographer.”

  Could there be some connection between her drowning and the earth swallowing up the man and dog? I was no geologist, but it sounded something like quicksand. However, Sabrina’s daughter’s death and the incident with the man and the dog had happened years apart.

  “Where’s this lake?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you. It would not be good for you to go there.”

  At first I’d simply felt sorry for Sabrina, but now she was a little frightening. Maybe her eerie talk was due to her alcohol intake, but it was giving me a headache. I decided it was time to leave.

  “Sabrina, thanks for the tea, but I need to leave now.”

  “Please have lunch with me. Or at least another flan.”

  “Maybe next time. I’m not feeling well right now.”

  “You can rest here if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I need my medicine back in the hotel.”

  “I can fix you some herbs.”

  The last thing I wanted was some strange concoction from this woman.

  “Well, thank you, but I’ll just head back.”

  “Suit yourself. Please come back again and I’ll tell you more about my daughter.” She continued in a dark tone. “She was attracted to death like a fly to honey.”

  “How so?”

  “She was too pure and innocent for this evil world. Some people live their lives longing for their own demise.”

  What was that supposed to mean? But I didn’t feel like asking.

  Back in the hotel I lay down, planning to nap, but I couldn’t quiet my mind. Who was Sabrina, really? There were hints that she was more than just a loose woman in her declining years. She’d had a daughter who saw everything, even her own death, or so she’d said. Was all this something I needed to know about or something I should stay away from?

  It seemed that my journey to the west had been much more interesting than I’d expected. I thought of the supposed ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” So far the trip had been successful in producing material I could use for my book. But at what price to myself? Somehow, Sabrina’s mysteries and her talk of death seemed to be the last straw. Now I was really frightened.

  I wished Laolao was here so I could consult her. Ivan and Brenda, the people closest to me, were so practical and materialistic that they were of no use at all with metaphysical matters. Since my arrival, I’d only called them twice. I had no reason to worry about them, but of course they were probably worrying about me.

  Despite my apprehensions, I wanted to visit Sabrina again to find out more about her mysterious and tragic daughter.

  But my intuition told me to stay away from her.

  12

  Laolao and the Meaning of Dreams

  The next day I went to the spot where Ed and Kyle claimed that the earth had swallowed up the man and the dog, presumably Sabrina’s dog.

  The carnivorous earth was north of the open market, in a deserted park filled with trees with long aboveground roots like claws. Moss hung down from the branches like hair hanging over a ghost’s face. Approaching the spot, I became aware of an odd odor, perhaps of death.

  From a distance I could see what appeared to be wide cracks in the ground. This must be where the brothers had witnessed the bizarre disappearance. Looking at the cracks, I was reminded of the 3,000-year-old oracle bones used by the Chinese to tell their fortunes. But anything foretold by these cracks would be calamities.

  Laolao had told me about the bones, pressed with a red-hot poker to produce future-revealing cracks. In ancient China, the three most important things the Sons of Heaven divined about were illness, war, and sacrifice. No important decision was made without consulting the cracks. Military decisions were particularly critical, as the losers were likely to be sacrificed themselves. Weather was another important matter because no rain meant no crops and no food.

  The characters brushed on these ancient records are the earliest known examples of Chinese writing. Laolao had me copy them when I was learning to write. She told me that these were secret ways of writing that were never taught in school.

  “These are little pictures, but they can reveal the future. Chinese have many ancient arts to know the future and make decisions,” she’d said.

  “Then why did China have such a terrible history?” I’d asked.

  She had ignored my adolescent skepticism, saying, “That’s how Chinese know what they should or shouldn’t do. What is auspicious and what is virtuous. Which path to take and which to avoid. We Chinese always practice chuiji bixiong—go for fortune and avoid disasters at all cost.”

  I was young but starting to question what I was told. “Laolao, why does China still have so many tragedies?”

  Laolao had looked at me and smiled. “Eh! You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you? So let me tell you. If you don’t ask Heaven’s guidance, you’ll be even worse off! You think the gods have nothing better to do than watch out for
you? Sometimes you have to figure things out yourself! The gods can help you, but you have to ask.”

  I lacked Laolao’s naïve faith in these unnamed gods and thought that even if they existed, their advice was probably not very reliable.

  That was the main reason I decided to be a scholar instead of a shamaness like Laolao. Professions like fortune-teller or feng shui master have a mixed reputation at best. Many despise them as con artists at society’s margins. Among Chinese, those who make accurate predictions and earn their clients big fortunes are highly sought after and command big fees. They have earned the title of gaoren (“nobles”).

  They are respected because they claim knowledge of happenings in the other realm. The unwary client is intimidated by pronouncements like, “I can see a black cloud hovering above your head. A disaster will strike soon if you fail to do something to neutralize it.”

  The “something” involves paying the master hefty sums to carry out prayers, spells, incantations, rituals, or who knows what, to dissipate your impending bad luck. When I was younger, I felt confused about Laolao’s work, because it seemed that while some people respected her, others called her a charlatan.

  But she had always said, “These people are just jealous that I make good money. Remember this—in ancient China, a shaman was put under the category of ‘Ritual Expert.’ Even emperors respected them and took their advice very seriously.” She’d also told me the best shamanesses were virgins, but having had my mother did not seem to have held her back in her career. Perhaps there were not enough virgins to offer serious competition.

  However, as I grew older I could not help but notice that most of Laolao’s clients did not seem to have become rich by following her advice. Rather they were mostly ignorant and superstitious losers who hoped to change their fate, not through hard work but by bribing their dead ancestors or one of the numerous Chinese money gods. Despite their supernatural expertise, only a few shamans are lucky enough to make a lot of money. Most barely get by. Fortunately for us, Laolao was one of the lucky ones.

  She had always assured me, “Eileen, you don’t need to worry about money because you will attract money. Rich men will chase you. But unfortunately, this isn’t true for Brenda, even though getting rich is her life’s goal. That’s because life teaches us all different lessons. Some people’s karma is to be thrust on the opposite path of what they desire.”