by Mingmei Yip
Just as I was about to complain that there should also be an altar for a Chinese witch, Brenda smiled mysteriously.
“Eileen, come.”
She led me past a few guests toward the other end of the living room before she stopped in front of another display. To my delight, this one was decorated with Daoist talismans: gourds, a long string of prayer beads, a small drum, a bronze mirror, a ceramic mortar and pestle, a small three-legged cauldron, and a Prussian blue string-bound book entitled Jade Lady’s Feminine Fist.
Chinese shamans are expected to have great longevity, heal diseases, undergo otherworldly journeys, practice internal and external alchemy, and, of course, cast spells and curses. Jade Lady’s Feminine Fist is a manual for the practice of achieving internal qi energy. Chinese people believe that if you have strong qi, you can practically do anything—levitate, knock people to the ground without even touching them, stay alive without food, survive severe cold without clothes, even be buried alive and emerge a few days later.
My little sister, despite our family’s heritage, had never shown any interest in either Western or Chinese witchcraft. She only cared for practical things, which was not a bad thing, but I believed that people should also cultivate their spiritual side. So when disaster strikes, as it always does sooner or later, you have something to fall back on.
I was amazed by my little sister’s efforts, and I said, “Thanks, Brenda. How did you know about all these things?”
“I read your papers and dissertation for ideas.”
“But then where did you buy everything?”
“Haight-Ashbury.” She chuckled.
Just then my off-again boyfriend Ivan materialized. He draped an arm over Brenda and me.
“Girls, everything going well?”
Like me, Ivan had had to work late, but unlike me, he had to sweet-talk the big wigs and sign seven-figure contracts while I lectured, graded papers, and met with curious students. I suspected my students’ enthusiasm to meet me after class was due to rumors that I was a real witch. They wondered, though wouldn’t dare ask, if I burned old socks on my lover’s side of the bed so he’d stay faithful. If I’d put my menstrual blood into my boyfriend’s soup for the same reason. If I could concoct a brew of exotic herbs to mend a broken heart—or to break one. I had no one to blame but myself. For, in order to attract more students to my class, I often hinted that I was a witch.
“Yes, Ivan,” Brenda and I said simultaneously.
“And thanks for lending us your place,” I added.
“My pleasure.”
Later, when all the guests had arrived, Ivan made a public display of affection—even though I wasn’t his girlfriend at the moment—by holding my waist and kissing me on my lips.
“Happy birthday, my dear Eileen.”
Everyone raised their glasses and toasted. “Happy birthday, Eileen!”
Ivan stared at me lovingly. “Eileen, you look very beautiful and exotic. But please don’t put anything into my soup or drink tonight, promise?”
Everyone laughed.
That was why I liked Ivan—despite his driving ambition, he had a sense of humor. He looked particularly attractive tonight with his well-shaped nose and strong jaw. At forty-three, he possessed a muscular physique due to his relentless gym visits. He was a charming man even without the overflowing bank account.
He whispered in my ear, “Can you spend the night with me tonight, please?”
I cast him a mock dirty look. “Ivan, aren’t we sep—”
He cut me off. “Eileen, it’s cold tonight and I’m lonely. . . .”
“Okay,” I said, and smiled, “I can spend the night. But since I promised not to put anything in your drink, then you can’t put anything in me.”
He made a face, whispering back, “Ah, can’t outsmart a woman, especially one with a Ph.D.—in witchcraft, no less.”
Enjoying being the center of attention, dressed in my exotic costume, I floated around the apartment greeting people, all the while imagining myself as Xiwang Mu, Queen Mother of the West who reigns over all the immortals. And Ivan as if he were the King Father of the East, casting me protective, or controlling, glances as he chatted with his friends. A friend of mine strummed a guitar, providing soft background music for the partygoers.
In a corner next to the altar, Brenda talked with one of the male guests, her delicate hands and fingers, never having practiced nonattachment, lingered on the man’s arms and shoulders. Brenda always told me that a little flirting never hurts, for all men like it, even gays and grandfathers.
After all the greetings, Ivan came back to me. We took food from the table and sat down on a couch to eat. My department head, Timothy Lee, came to sit with us.
Downing a big gulp of Ivan’s expensive wine, Timothy smiled. “Happy birthday, Eileen. How are you?”
“Busy teaching and writing, as you know.”
“Have you considered my suggestion?”
“Yes, but I’m not strong on Western witchcraft. . . .”
“Then you should do some serious fieldwork.”
“I thought of that, but—”
“Eileen is not going anywhere. I need her here,” Ivan said.
I gave him a disapproving look.
Timothy ignored Ivan’s remark and went on. “Fieldwork is the way to make your work credible.”
Now my boyfriend, maybe soon to be ex, put his arm protectively around my shoulder. “No. What about if Eileen gets sick or even captured by natives?”
Timothy smiled. “If Eileen is a witch, I’m sure she’ll find a way out. Or if she’s a shamaness, she’ll be in another time and space before anything happens, ha!” With that, he winked at me, stood up, and began to talk with one of the professors.
Soon there was the sound of metal hitting glass. The room went quiet and Timothy spoke to the crowd. “Let’s ask our birthday girl, Eileen Chen, to entertain us all with some witchcraft!”
Laughter and applause burst out.
Red-faced and probably half-drunk on Ivan’s free-flowing, expensive wine, Timothy went on excitedly. “We all know that Eileen is a . . . let’s put it this way, Eileen is a professor of Chinese and Western witchcraft.” He turned to me. “So could you show us some tricks?”
People cheered as Ivan cast me an encouraging look. Now that I was on the spot, I wished I really did possess supernatural powers, such as to break a glass—specifically the one in Timothy Lee’s hand. Or simply disappearing for a quick mystic journey to the other world. Unfortunately I didn’t have such abilities. But I had to admit to myself that if my colleagues thought I did, it was my fault because I had so often dropped hints of having special powers.
The guests were not going to take no for an answer.
“Yes, let’s see some witchcraft on your birthday!”
“Open our eyes!”
“Eileen, bring some excitement to our tedious lives, please!”
I decided that all right, I’d try. If I failed—and of course I would—my excuse was that I was too tired from work.
My reluctant feet dragged me to the middle of the living room. I meditated, then circulated my internal energy the way my mother and grandmother had taught me. My eyes searched the room for an easy object upon which to exercise my supposed power. Seconds later, they landed on the guitar strings.
I asked the guitar player, who was my colleague, “John, can you play the ‘Spider’s Dance’? You played it at last year’s Christmas party.”
I gathered up my courage, and announced, “I’m going to break the third string.”
A round of applause exploded in the room.
John looked a bit puzzled, but nevertheless obliged. In no time the room was filled with a frantic tune and every one nodded or jumped to the rhythm. I was just hoping that John would play so fast and exert so much strength that the string would break.
Now I was on the path of “no return.” My mother had always insisted that I possessed supernatural power, if I would just le
t myself believe. Her proof was an incident that occurred when I was a child. She had just taken away my glass of Coke, which she deemed toxic. So I focused my anger on the glass in her hand, which fragmented, spilling the soda and staining her dress.
Either my mother had made up this event, which I had no memory of, or she desperately hoped that her elder daughter was born unusual. My mother said a lot of strange things, most of which I did not take seriously. Like all children, I had known better than to believe what adults told us. In any case, I did not remember the incident, and so it did not tempt me to explore my supposed unusual talents. As a scholar, I needed to maintain objectivity about my subject.
I could tell that a few of Ivan’s stuffy colleagues were expecting me to fail and become a laughingstock. I knew many of them, mostly self-satisfied jerks who enjoyed seeing others fail.
I didn’t expect to succeed, but I was going to try my best. So I concentrated and stared fiercely at the third string. Three minutes into playing, when John was furiously strumming, there was a loud snap and he stopped, looking totally shocked.
Ivan’s cat, who had been sitting lazily on the altar, watching the drama with arrogant, wicked eyes, now jumped, emitting a loud screech as if it had seen a ghost.
Ivan was the first to speak. “What happened?”
“Yes, what’s happening?” someone asked.
John looked at his guitar, then the guests. “A string broke, the third one.” He frowned as he looked at his instrument.
Now everyone turned to look at me, some curious, some a little scared. It was as if I’d suddenly transformed into a witch, complete with black cape, broom, pointed hat, long bloodred nails, and was perhaps about to burst into delirious laughter.
Adding to the collective shock, the doorbell suddenly rang loudly. Since all the invited guests were already here, who could be at the door? An angry neighbor? Brenda dashed to the door and came back with a big beribboned package, which she handed to me. Tucked under the red ribbon was a card with the words Happy Birthday to a Witch.
My heart skipped a beat.
A jealous expression flitted across Ivan’s face. “That’s a big birthday gift, Eileen. Let’s see who it’s from.”
What he really wanted to know was if someone had sent me something more expensive than he had. I doubted that, since Ivan had earlier given me a very nice pearl necklace.
Ignoring my birthday guests’ curious stares, I excused myself and walked toward the bathroom. Somehow opening gifts in front of an audience has always been embarrassing to me. Brenda and Ivan followed me, however.
I gave Ivan a disapproving look. “Ivan, a gentleman does not follow a lady, let alone two, to the bathroom.”
Reluctantly, he turned back toward the living room.
Inside the washroom, with Brenda beside me, I quickly tore off the shiny silver gift paper, which seemed to make a despondent sound as it ripped. Next I peeled through layers and layers of tissue paper before my eyes landed on something strange. It was an animal skull, probably that of a monkey. It was stark white and I couldn’t tell if it was real or not.
Both Brenda and I fell silent. Why would someone send me a gift like this on my birthday?
“Who delivered this?” I asked.
“I don’t know—when I opened the door, it was lying on the floor.”
“Very strange.” In fact, it was more than strange, it was scary. But I didn’t want to alarm my little sister.
She looked worried anyway. “You think it’s bad luck?”
“I’m sure whoever sent this wants to make me feel uncomfortable.”
“I’m so sorry, Eileen. Who would want to do that?”
“I don’t know. Someone must be trying to send me a message.”
“What’s the message?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be anything pleasant.”
Maybe, I thought to myself, I really have to become a witch to fight the unknown, evil force that might be coming my way.
2
Signs from Heaven
When Brenda and I reentered the living room, people were still chattering about my “supernatural” power.
Then Ivan brought up the question I had to avoid. “What’s that gift you and Brenda are so mysterious about?”
“It’s a cookbook for my birthday,” I lied.
He didn’t inquire further. He was pretty tipsy by this point.
Ivan planted a kiss on my forehead, then looked around proudly at the other guests. “See? Eileen is a witch! She’s awesome. Impossible to find another girl like her, right?”
I could smell alcohol from Ivan’s breath, mingled with his expensive cologne. Would he still want me if I really was a witch with supernatural powers? But he didn’t look scared.
“Eileen, how did you do that?” Timothy asked suspiciously.
I smiled. “Nothing special. It was just a coincidence.”
No one seemed to believe me, so I added, “If we really pay attention, we notice coincidences happen all the time. But some are more than coincidences . . . synchronicities.”
John made a face. “Then how do you explain my third string breaking?”
“I asked you to play the ‘Spider’s Dance’ because it’s fast and the third string would be plucked aggressively. So it broke, as I’d hoped.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“You think I really possess this kind of power?” I asked, wondering myself.
“Maybe. I did pull very hard on the third string, though,” said John. But he still didn’t look convinced.
I was so preoccupied with this strange event that the rest of the evening was a blur. I talked with people without knowing what I said and ate without savoring the food. What occupied my mind was my suddenly acquired “supernatural” power and the bizarre birthday gift, the small skull. Long ago, my mother had told me that after my previous life I was supposed to descend into hell, but instead I had fallen into this life.
Mother always joked that I must have been a hungry ghost before I reincarnated into this world because the day I was born, according to the Chinese calendar, is when the Gate of Hell is opened. This is done out of compassion for all of the ghosts, who are allowed to enter the yang world for a brief stroll. But all the ghosts must return to hell before midnight. Mother said that because I liked to eat so much I was still looking for the next meal, well past midnight, and missed the chance to go back to the yin sphere. So I’d been stuck as a human. Anyway, here I was. Maybe because I’d been born at the edge between yin and yang, I was half witch and half human. Yin and yang mean “female” and “male,” but also the world of the living, full of strong yang energy, and the world of the dead, teeming with yin spirits.
Mother also told me that when I was little, some ghosts followed me around. One pinched me when I was not paying attention, another knocked down my rice bowl when I was about to eat, yet another tripped me when I was trying to learn to walk. Apparently, they didn’t want me to grow up but instead come back to the other world—hell. But I grew up anyway because my parents always kept lots of cash and change with them to donate whenever we ran into monks or nuns. This was to generate merit for me so the Buddha would protect me from the ghosts. Therefore, miraculously, I actually did grow up. Once you go through puberty the ghosts lose interest, so I was safe after that.
No sooner had the party ended and everyone was gone, than Ivan and I were naked, entwined in his spacious bed. Though I wasn’t in the mood for sex, Ivan wouldn’t take no for an answer and I felt too tired to resist. It was my birthday treat from him, he insisted—even though we were supposedly in our trial separation. Didn’t he fear that I’d break part of him like I’d broken the guitar string? But it seemed that instead the idea of making love with a witch had turned him on.
After we were done, Ivan put his arms behind his head and looked at me admiringly. “You have to tell me, Eileen, how did you snap that string? Just coincidence, some sort of magic trick, or are you really a witch?”
“You’re the one to decide.”
He didn’t respond but kept staring at me.
Finally, I said, “Do I or don’t I look like a witch?”
Instead of answering, he reached out to hold me.
“If you want to turn into a real witch, you know you’ll have my full support.” He smiled.
Was this a joke? Or maybe he really did care about me.
Why was I attracted to Ivan? The question made me think of what the famous novelist Cheung Ailing said in her novel Lust, Caution:
A man conquers a woman through her yin tunnel and a woman captures a man through his stomach.
In Ailing’s story, a woman spy seduces a Chinese man who is a traitor to the invading Japanese. But it is she who becomes sexually besotted with him, leading to his escape and her death.
So sex could bind a woman, maybe even a witch as well, against her will.
Although I had enjoyed playing the role of witch at my party, in truth I was more shocked by what had happened than my guests. For weeks, I tried to put the snapped guitar string and the peculiar gift of the skull out of my mind. Yet like cancer cells, these memories just wouldn’t leave me alone. So I took a break from preparing lessons to research the symbolism of skulls. What I discovered was not what I’d expected. Traditionally a skull evokes terror, but it can also celebrate the memory of the dead. After all, the skull is the part of the body that remains after death.
But my research could not shed light on my biggest question: Who had sent the skull as a birthday present, and why? Was it good luck, bad luck, or merely an unpleasant prank? Maybe the strange object was somehow meant to lure me away from my humdrum life into unknown realms that, perilous or not, held my destiny.