by Mingmei Yip
Would I get rich as Laolao had told me? Would the path I was treading lead to fulfillment of my desires? I stared at the cracks in the earth, wondering if they, like the ancient oracle bones, could foretell my future. I knew that some recorded human sacrifices and wondered if somehow the earth had claimed the man and dog as victims.
But the only logical explanation was that it had been due to some sort of geological oddity. Anyway, the cracks that were visible now were far too small to swallow anyone up. Still, I could not help but fear that I might be the next victim.
Just in case, to appease my fears, I walked around the area and whispered a prayer to any gods or ghosts that might be dwelling nearby. Then I quickly left to go back to my hotel.
Even safely back in the hotel, visiting the cracks in the earth left me shaken up for the rest of the day. So I stayed in my room, lying on the bed. I dozed off and dreamt that I was seeing Sabrina’s daughter, who looked like the Spanish version of me.
“You belong here,” she said, her tone serious.
“How are you so sure?”
“It’s why you came here, of all places. I’m dead, but you’re alive, so you can do for me what I can no longer do for myself.”
“What do you think I can do? Why me?”
“I need a living witch’s magical power.”
“But I’m not a witch.”
“Yes, you are, but you’re still in your denial phase. There’s a hidden lake a few miles north of where you were today. You must go there to find out about your life. And mine too.”
“My past or my future?”
“First your past, it’s what leads to your future.”
She began to recede into the distance, saying in a fading voice, “Whatever you do, you must go to the lake. It will show you what you seek.”
I wanted to ask her why I should be interested in a dead person and a forgotten lake, but it was then that I woke up, soaking wet.
Could I believe a dead girl in a dream?
With a chill, I suddenly realized that the woman in my dream was also the girl I’d seen on the boat ride to Tenerife! No wonder nobody on the boat had seen her, for she didn’t exist—not in our realm! I wasn’t sure I believed in such things, but it seemed that this phantom woman must have something important to tell me, coming to me first on the boat and now in my dream.
My grandma Laolao had never tired of discussing dreams. She had studied the “Duke of Zhou’s” famous Book of Dreams and was highly skilled in interpreting them for her clients.
Laolao had often told me, “Dreams are other realities. Haven’t you heard of Zhuangzi’s Butterfly Dreams? The scholar’s dream of a butterfly was so real that when he awakened, he could not decide if it was Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.
“Don’t dismiss anything metaphysical; there is more to reality than just the physical. You understand?”
I nodded while she went on with increasing vehemence. “Dreams make the invisible visible. What you are confused about in your life, look for a sign in your dreams. Dreams can shake us up, but they tell us what we need to know. That’s why I use dreams for divination. Life is so uncertain, we need ways to foresee our future. So, remember, don’t just discard your dreams like old calendars!”
I’d never imagined that dreams had any importance. But Laolao seemed pretty confident about it, so I was confused. Were dreams a powerful way to knowledge—or were they just dreams, bubbles that pop as we wake up?
Laolao said, “Doctors can even tell from dreams if you’re sick. However, only Chinese doctors know how to do this.”
“I’ve never heard of this.”
“Easy. For example, if you often dream of demons or ghosts, that means your body is afflicted with evil qi entering your organs. If you have confusing dreams, you’re weak, always feeling dizzy and faint. Dreaming of boats and drowning means your body lacks water, your kidney qi is declining, and your health in serious trouble. But if you dream of strong fire, that shows you have a strong heart. Listen, dreams tell your internal balance, which in turn comes from the cosmic balance.”
“Wah, that’s amazing! Laolao, how do you know all this?”
Laolao patted my head, smiling proudly. “Because I had a very learned mother—your great-grandmother.”
Great-grandmother. She must be a dinosaur, or anyway a long-buried mummy!
Laolao winked. “My mother made me memorize the Duke of Zhou’s Dream Manual; that’s why I’m such an expert on dreams. I can even reinterpret my interpretations. So when people come to me with a bad dream, I can always turn it into a good one.”
“Laolao, so you’re lying to people about their dreams, cheating them?”
She laughed. “Of course not, silly girl. I’m helping them. You know, anything is possible in dreams, so anything is possible in their interpretations.”
Laolao paused, then continued. “Believe it or not, dreams can even solve murders. . . .”
“Murders?” My ears perked up. I’d read many thrillers and detective novels, but never about dreams solving murder mysteries. Being a dream detective would be an easy job—just sleep until you dream the solution.
Laolao’s voice could sound as mysterious as the murder mysteries. “You know the famous Judge Bao?”
I nodded.
“Bao is the most revered judge in Chinese history because he was completely impartial. There was never a case he couldn’t solve, sometimes by dreams.”
I kept very quiet so as not to interrupt Laolao telling the story about Judge Bao, the Chinese Sherlock Holmes.
“Que raped and murdered Madame Wei, but the perpetrator vehemently denied it, claiming that he didn’t even know the woman. One day Madame Wei appeared in Judge Bao’s dream, telling him how she’d been murdered by Que. In the dream, she showed Bao a love letter written by Que to seduce her. With just this evidence from a dream, Bao confronted Que, telling him he had his love letter to Madame Wei. Though Judge Bao had never seen the actual letter, this was enough to scare Que into confessing.”
I said, “I hope my dreams can solve my problems too.”
My grandmother looked at me affectionately. “Eileen, you’ll live a great life.” She smiled. “Anyway, don’t forget your dreams, they’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
“But, Laolao, I can’t control if I’ll dream or not!”
“Of course you can! People used to perform rituals for the dream god to enter their sleep.”
She added, “Don’t worry, when you need a dream it will come to you. You might even have a dream within a dream. If you are so lucky, you’ll be enlightened beyond the dimension we’re living in.”
Before I had time to figure out what all this meant, Laolao spoke again. “However, Zhuangzi said, ‘The highest sage has no dreams.’”
“What did he mean?”
“The truly enlightened don’t need dreams, because nothing troubles them.”
Even though I didn’t always fathom her profundity, I thought Laolao was the most intelligent person I’d ever known, certainly more than any of my teachers at school.
“So, Laolao, do you too have dreams?”
She laughed. “Of course. How many people do you think can reach this dreamless state? The answer is none!”
“Not even the sage Zhuangzi?”
“That I don’t know, because I still haven’t found a way to have him enter my dreams, not even as a butterfly.”
Just then, I awakened from my reverie and wished I had Laolao with me to explain Sabrina’s daughter entering my dream. Could I trust a deceased stranger telling me I would find my future in an isolated lake?
13
A Meeting in the Graveyard
I knew I should visit the witches for my research, but I was more curious about Sabrina and especially about her deceased daughter who had come all the way from the other realm to seek my help. Also, when Alfredo had called Sabrina an evil witch, I didn’t know whether he was just being
spiteful or literal. I was resolved to find out.
So I found myself back at Sabrina’s front door, which this time was opened by a fiftyish maid with an apron tied around her bulging waist. I was holding a small bouquet of carnations that I had bought at a bodega at the bottom of the hill, as a gesture to show sympathy for the unhappy woman.
“Señora Sanchez has been waiting for you. Please come in.”
Why was Sabrina so confident that I’d visit again?
After the maid had ushered me into the living room, she pointed out the window.
“Señora Sanchez is outside. She wants you to meet her in the cemetery over there. She’s is waiting for you with Isabelle.”
“Who’s Isabelle?”
“Her daughter.”
“But isn’t she . . . dead?”
“Yes, of course. Please . . . señora is anxious to see you now.”
I suddenly wondered how it was that Sabrina could afford a house and a maid. “I didn’t see you when I was here before,” I said.
“I only work here part-time. Señora needs help. She’s not been well.” The maid held her hand up to her mouth. “She drinks too much.”
“Her health is in decline?”
She nodded. “Cirrhosis. Haven’t you noticed that her feet and face are swollen? But if she can’t get a drink, she trembles. Your visit cheered her up, so I hope you can come here often.”
She leaned over, and whispered in a conspiratorial way, “We don’t know how much time she has left.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I will try.”
She didn’t answer me, but went to open the door.
After walking under the hot sun for a few minutes, I reached the cemetery. There were only three rows of graves, all marked with small bone-white stones, some decorated with crosses, others with winged angels who looked tired and forlorn, as if trapped on the cold stone to mourn the inanimate occupants—or perhaps trying to rein in some very animated ghosts! Some of the graves seemed well-tended, but others were overgrown with weeds.
I spotted Sabrina, sitting on the grass and reading by herself near one of the gravestones. She could almost pass as one of the stone angels, only she had no wings to lift her body—or her mood. Hearing my footsteps, she raised her head and our eyes met.
“Hola. I’ve been talking with my daughter and waiting for you.”
“That’s good,” I said, but immediately regretted it. What was so good about talking to the dead?
I handed her the bouquet. Surprised, Sabrina smelled it, then placed it on her daughter’s grave.
“Gracias,” she said, patting the grass next to her. “Come sit with us for a minute.”
After I sat, she went on. “Actually, I’ve been reading to my daughter—”
“Isabelle?”
“Yes, she liked metaphysical books and ghost stories. Since she was a little girl, she firmly believed that life would continue in another dimension after death.”
Well, that was novel—reading ghost stories to a ghost. I would have thought a dead person would have wanted something more cheerful. If the ghost could hear, would she be bored, frightened, or more likely, laugh at this ridiculousness? Just then a breeze blew from the southwest—the direction from which Chinese people believe ghosts appear. Despite my skepticism, I felt a chill, wondering if Isabelle really had arrived to join us.
“I miss Isabelle,” Sabrina continued. “So I’m glad that you have come to me, even during the twilight of my life. Seeing you makes me feel like I’m seeing my daughter again.”
She may have thought this would please me, but I didn’t want to be the substitute for her dead daughter. But staring at Sabrina’s sad, swollen, face, I did not want to disillusion her. So I simply nodded. She responded by smiling sadly.
“Sabrina,” I said, “do you come here often to talk to Isabelle?”
“Sometimes. She’s been dead for twenty years. I miss my daughter. She was so smart and beautiful—just like you.”
My friend pulled a photo out from her purse and handed it to me. I was startled because, seeing Isabelle’s face close up, I thought she really did look like me. She wasn’t Asian, of course, but her somewhat sloping eyes, high cheekbones, and full, determined lips did remind me of myself. She had a tiny strawberry-colored mole between her brows, like a third eye—just like the she-ghost I’d seen on the ferry. . . .
“Maybe she’s reincarnated in you. That’s why you came all the way here to comfort me,” Sabrina said.
I was thirty-three and Isabelle had died twenty years ago, so the timing was wrong. I didn’t comment on this because I did not want to deprive Sabrina of what little comfort she had.
“We do look alike, so maybe we have something in common.”
I thought to myself, Like cousins or sisters in one of our past lives.
“If Isabelle were still alive, I’m sure she’d have achieved a lot, just like you. Do you ever think about life after death?”
Of course I did, because it was one of Laolao’s most common subjects of conversation. But, casting a glance at the graves and involuntarily imagining the rotten corpses underneath, I really would have preferred to talk about something else. So I said nothing.
“I think about it all the time. Because Isabelle is dead and I’m dying,” said Sabrina.
“Please. Chinese consider talking of death unlucky.”
“Lucky or unlucky, we will all face death someday. So, why can’t we face it now, eh?”
“What makes you think you’re dying?”
She held up something from her handbag—a metal flask covered in leather. “This. It’s been destroying me.”
“Then why don’t you stop?”
“Ha! You think anyone can stop death? It’s my fate.”
Isn’t it everyone else’s?
“Does Alfredo know about this? I mean you’re . . .” I couldn’t say the word dying.
“He doesn’t want to deal with me—in fact, he stopped giving a damn about me a long time ago. And why should he care? I’m old, ugly, and dying.” Her eyes wandered to a grave at the far end of the row. “But he used to be crazy about me.”
“It’s no surprise, because you’re a beautiful woman, Sabrina.”
She cast me a curious glance. “You mean were.”
“Sabrina, please. You’re still attractive,” I said, swallowing. What she said next startled me.
“It’s true I was beautiful, but it helped that I hired a witch to cast love spells on him.”
Now my curiosity was aroused. “A love spell by a witch? Did it work?”
“I believed that my beauty alone would have lured Alfredo. The spell was just to be sure.”
This was getting really interesting. “Did she really do the spell? Maybe she just took your money.”
“No, I watched her do it. I told her I needed a love charm, so she asked for pictures of Alfredo and me together; then I had to write down all sorts of things about us—birthdays, interests, favorite foods, where we’d traveled, what colors we liked. I wrote down singing and dancing as my hobbies, but I didn’t know Alfredo’s so I wrote down that it was making money. I could have added seducing women, ha!
“Finally, Nathalia asked me to put my wish in writing, so I wrote, ‘Please make Alfredo love me and give me money forever.’ Ha, you think I’m greedy? But that’s me, I’m just being honest!
“When everything was ready, Nathalia asked me to focus my mind on capturing Alfredo’s love. Then she waved her wand to purify the space and began dancing and chanting. After that, she lit the papers and pictures with the candle, then burned them to ashes in the cauldron as she continued to chant.”
“What’s the chanting about?”
“Something like, ‘I call upon the Universe to keep Alfredo Alfrenso by Sabrina Sanchez’s side and make him love her forever. Make him do whatever she desires and love no other woman, not even his wife. . . .’”
This surprised me a little—it was the first time a wife entered into h
er little romantic melodrama.
I couldn’t help exclaiming, “That’s a very selfish spell!”
Now my friend cast me an are-you-stupid-or-something? look.
“You think love is so generous that you’d share it with others? Selfless love is only for church!”
“But . . . Alfredo was married, right?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She nodded, looking annoyed. “Anything wrong with that?”
“Maybe not. So . . . where is his wife now?”
“She’s been dead for a long time.”
“How did she die?”
“What is it to you? I said it’s been a long time. So what does it matter now?”
Some silence passed before I asked, “Where’s this witch Nathalia now?”
“I don’t know—maybe also dead. I don’t care about her, only that her spell worked. My advice is that if you have a boyfriend you want to keep, you’d better hire a witch.”
I remembered my mother had told me that one of her girlfriends had used a Daoist spell to capture her man. It had also worked. Laolao had told her about it, a love spell called hehe jiang, charm of the harmonious union. Actually, this spell was pretty complicated. She got a picture of two immortals that Chinese believe help women capture a man. She put up the picture in her bedroom, bowed, and made offerings of betel nut and dried oyster. Then she asked the immortals to bless their marriage—and also, most important, stop the men’s, even the women’s, wandering eyes. Afterward, the picture would be burned to send it to the immortals waiting in the other world.
I didn’t know the details of Sabrina’s spell, but the Chinese ones I learned from Laolao were quite mild and harmless, though complicated. But I knew that there were plenty of bad ones she’d never mentioned to me, like the love spell—or more accurately, love curse—practiced in Southeast Asia. The ritual involves preparation of curse oil, maledictions, and the burning of talismans, incense, and paper money. Curse oil is made by burning a deceased virgin’s maidenhead, then rubbing it on a man’s body.