The Witch's Market

by Mingmei Yip

  “I only met Juan for a few minutes. Why can’t he talk?”

  “Nobody knows. We think he was born that way. Maybe his parents couldn’t cope with his handicap, so they abandoned him at the church. Father Ricardo found a local woman to take care of him. Then, when he was older, Father brought him to work in our church. Anyway, Juan’s past is taboo. People here think that foundlings are bad luck, so anyone old enough to remember won’t talk about it.

  “Unfortunately Juan can only express himself by writing and he knows only a few words. However”—Father Fernando looked up toward the sun shining through the treetops as if he were seeking the Almighty—“God looks after Juan. Father Ricardo took good care of him until he passed away.”

  So Juan, though handicapped, was not entirely unlucky. Without the two priests, the poor lad might have ended up like a broken piece of furniture, no longer used but not thrown away either, simply forgotten.

  “I’m sad to say that Juan’s condition will only get worse.” Fernando sighed. “Luis and Juan are about the same age, but Luis is smart and poor Juan is slow. Sometimes I wonder what God’s plan is.”

  I didn’t respond, because I didn’t think much of God or his plan. Laolao had taught me to believe only in karma, the cause and effect of one’s actions. I wondered if Juan’s parents had done something bad. Then I immediately felt guilty. After all, Juan was innocent and shouldn’t be blamed for his misfortune.

  Father Fernando’s melancholy voice rose again in the palm-scented air. “As I said, this village will be abandoned very soon. Juan will probably end up in an institution. Grandpa is getting old, and once he returns to God, Luis will leave to pursue his dreams.”

  I felt sadness welling up inside me. This idyllic hamlet, abandoned, all because of rumors about a lake.

  “As Christians, we do not believe in ghosts, yet this lake has caused great harm. It’s best you don’t go back there,” the priest continued.

  I suspected Father Fernando knew more about the lake than he let on, but I could tell he would say no more about it. He was a kind man, but in thrall to his church’s teachings.

  Later that day, Grandpa, Luis, and I were sitting together, finishing our coffee and watching the sunset.

  When Luis got up to clear the table, Grandpa said in a serious tone, “Eileen, I’ve decided to teach you to sculpt. You have my best statutes now. So all I have left to pass on to you is my skill.”

  Wah, how kind! But I doubted I was a suitable student. “But, Grandpa, what about if I don’t have any talent?”

  “Bah! You think the great artists in the world knew they had talent before they started lessons?”

  Maybe I did have talent and maybe I didn’t. But I was here to research a book, not learn to sculpt.

  Grandpa went inside the house and returned with a stained canvas sack, from which he took his tools: knives, hammers, chisels, charcoal pencils, and blocks of wood.

  He spread everything on the table, then sat next to me. “Sculpting rock is too hard for a beginner, so we’ll start with wood. I’ll carve something simple—a bird. Watch how I do it.”

  I frowned, doubting that I could really learn.

  He cast me a disapproving look, then picked up a small block of wood. “Now stop fretting and just watch.”

  An hour later, a small bird had alighted, perching on a twig. Next, seemingly with only a few strokes of his chisel, the face of an ancient Mediterranean goddess appeared, with two round holes for eyes and a protruding bulge for a nose. When finished, Grandpa looked very satisfied, caressing his creations, then viewing them from different angles.

  From that day on, Grandpa gave me lessons in carving. Luis would watch sometimes, but he was usually busy in the yard, making the furniture that brought in the small amount of money they lived on. My lessons could stretch out to two or three hours. The rest of the time I would jot down notes for my book and go for solitary walks when restless, often bringing my sketchbook and drawing the sights that had become so familiar.

  Around six in the evening, Luis would come back inside to prepare our dinner. I helped by washing clothes, feeding the chickens, and tidying up. Grandpa would always protest, telling me I was their guest and should not do chores.

  One day, more than two weeks into my lessons, Grandpa pressed a piece of wood into my hand. “All right, now you carve something by yourself.”

  Under his intense, no-nonsense gaze, I felt as if I were going into a trance. My hands moved about with a mind of their own as scraps of wood fell to the ground. Finally the work was finished and I set it down as if guided by a superior power from above—or a ghost below.

  Carved onto the wood was the face of a young woman above waves.

  Grandpa looked startled. “I think I know this girl. Can it be that you knew her as well?”

  Now back to my normal state of mind, I looked at my own creation—the girl looked like Isabelle. In a way I knew her—but only in my dreams and visions.

  “You’ve never met this girl. She’s been dead for many years.” Grandpa’s quavering voice rose again.

  My eyes met Grandpa’s cloudy ones. “You knew her?”

  “It was pretty big news at the time. She drowned in the lake. That’s why people stopped going there.”

  “How did it happen?” I was hoping for information, but I was quickly disappointed.

  “She drowned in the lake. That’s all that I know.” Grandpa pointed to my statue. “Who’s this person here?”

  I saw that I’d also carved a small figure, a woman with long hair, watching “Isabelle” in the water.

  Was someone or something sending me a message through my own hands? Had a woman witnessed Isabelle’s death? Her own mother? It wasn’t possible!

  Grandpa started to say something, but then Luis’s happy voice interrupted us.

  “Grandpa, Eileen, I’m back and dinner will be ready soon!”

  That night Isabelle came into my dream again, smiling sadly. She looked at me for a while, then whispered, “We were close in a past life. Now you must help me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “When I drowned, I’m not sure if I fell or . . . was pushed. I can’t really remember that night. Just that I had a headache and felt dizzy from drinking.”

  “I’m not a detective.”

  “Keep your third eye open. Use your powers.”

  I woke up, soaked in sweat. I was getting tired of my obsession with Isabelle, but I suspected the only way to be rid of her was to solve the mystery of her death.

  We must face what we fear.

  18

  God Is Gracious

  I ended up staying with Luis and Grandpa for a little over a month. I knew I should visit the witches again to gather material for my book, but I kept putting it off. It was just too comfortable, staying in the little village with Grandpa and Luis, and I was not in the mood for anything unpleasant.

  Every day after Grandpa finished teaching, I’d practice on my own, sculpting little things like a cow, a dog, a cup, a goddess, or whatever I fancied. Around six Luis would come home to cook. Once Grandpa had gone to bed after dinner, Luis would beg me to tell him stories about China.

  I didn’t know many stories, but I certainly knew the most famous Chinese one, The Butterfly’s Lovers. So I told it the way I had heard it from my mother:

  One thousand years ago during the Eastern Jin dynasty, women were not supposed to study, but marry early so they could raise children, do housework, and embroidery. But not Yingtai, a daughter of the wealthy Zhu family. She convinced her father to let her disguise herself as a boy and attend school in the city.

  On the first day of school she met the young scholar, Liang. The two felt such intense connection that they took an oath to become sworn brothers.

  During the three years as classmates in school, Yingtai fell in love with Liang, who had no idea that his best friend was in fact a woman.

  One day Yingtai received a letter from home demanding her imm
ediate return. Liang insisted on accompanying his friend for the first eighteen miles of the long journey home. On the way, Yingtai hinted to Liang in different ways that she was a woman, but none worked. Finally, she told him she’d be a matchmaker for him and her sister, to Liang’s great delight. When they finally parted, Yingtai reminded Liang to visit her home to meet the sister.

  A couple of months later Liang visited the Zhu family and was overjoyed to discover that the young “sister” was Yingtai herself. But no sooner had the two declared their passionate love than they learned that Yingtai’s parents had already betrothed her to a wealthy businessman. Liang fell sick at this terrible news and soon died.

  The day when Yingtai and the businessman married, a sudden wind prevented the wedding procession from passing beyond Liang’s grave, located along the way. Yingtai dashed to her lover’s grave and begged Heaven to open it. With a deafening clap of thunder, the grave opened up and the bride threw herself into it. Minutes later, two butterflies flew out from the grave side by side and soon disappeared in the clear blue sky.

  When I finished, I told Luis, “This is Chinese Romeo and Juliet.”

  To my surprise, he began to tear up. Putting on a determined expression, he said, “I’d also die for someone I love.”

  “Luis,” I smiled, “it’s nice to think that, but trust me, you’re way too young to realize that life is more than just love.”

  He shook his head. “No, I think love is everything. It gives hope and trust to people.”

  I could tell that he was enamored with me, so I reminded myself to avoid telling him love stories.

  When we were alone, Luis would look at me lovingly, as if I were his lover, or even his wife. He’d fix me tea or coffee and prepare treats that he’d gone outside the village to get. I was touched by his affection but also cautious because sooner or later I would go back to the States. I didn’t want to break anyone’s heart. I liked Luis very much, but I knew there was no future for a relationship.

  Besides Luis and Grandpa, I also came to spend some time with Juan, Father Fernando’s handicapped assistant. Like a vulnerable child, he stirred my maternal instincts. Despite his not being able to talk, there was an understanding between us. He was kindhearted and, in his own way, affectionate. Of course I felt pity for him, though he never seemed to want it. At times I was tempted to ask Father Fernando if he could explain how the young man’s afflictions were part of God’s plan. But the priest was a good man and I did not want to discomfit him.

  One time Grandpa said, “Juan may be slow, but he’s very kind. That’s why Father Ricardo named him Juan, which means ‘God is gracious.’ ” He sighed. “But his parents abandoned God’s Grace.”

  “How could his parents be that cruel?” I asked.

  “Ah . . . the human heart is something that no one can fathom.”

  This reminded me of the Chinese saying: “Understanding the human heart is like searching for a needle at the sea bottom.”

  Sometimes when Grandpa and Luis went out, I’d walk over to the church to spend time with “Grace of God.”

  Juan could utter “Ah . . . Ah . . .” and a few other sounds whose meaning I could only guess. But we could communicate in a halting way by writing on the ground with a stick. When he wanted to tell me something, he’d take me to his favorite place, the church’s backyard, where the ground was soft enough for him to write on.

  The first word he had written was Madre, making me think he missed his unknown mother. But then when he wrote tú, I realized he wanted me to be his mother since he’d never known one.

  Another time he shocked me by writing the word puta.

  At first I thought he was trying to insult me, but then I thought he was young and big and must have the same desires as other men, but with no way to fulfill them. Certainly he could not find a girlfriend or wife, so perhaps he hoped I could help him find someone willing, presumably for cash.

  I felt sad that he had normal feelings while trapped in an abnormal body. Reluctantly I wrote, “No es posible.”

  He looked crestfallen, making me feel very sad. He put his hand on his heart and made a cradling movement. I guessed that he wanted a woman to hold him, to feel the feminine warmth that he’d never felt, not even from his own mother as a baby.

  “Don’t worry, you are loved by many,” I wrote on the sand.

  Juan smiled like the sun had cast its golden rays on a blooming flower. Though he looked and acted like a child, at times his facial expression made me think he was not as “slow” as he seemed. I also noticed that his pinkies were slightly bent inward. I wondered if he’d been hurt accidentally, or beaten up by bullies. However, in comparison to his other “defects,” this one was really minor.

  When Juan seemed particularly cheerful, he’d ask me to get on a rusty swing and push me. The higher I rose and the louder I’d scream, the happier he’d be. He also enjoyed riding up and down like two giant jumping beans on the seesaw with me at the other end. These simple activities seemed to be his only source of enjoyment. I tried to please him by shouting as loud as I could, while he laughed like a tickled toddler.

  Juan also insisted on helping me carry things: a bunch of wildflowers, bucket of water, or piece of wood for sculpting. He’d always insist on walking me back to Grandpa and Luis’s house. Then, to say good-bye, he’d suddenly stand very straight, click his heels, and salute, his expression serious. I realized this was his idea of Spanish chivalry.

  Juan’s face had nice, even features, so I couldn’t understand why he’d been abandoned like a rag doll. I assumed that his mother was a teenage girl who’d just had a bite of the forbidden apple and couldn’t swallow the result. Likely, his father, whether another teenager or an evil older man, had taken off as soon as he’d found out she was pregnant. I wondered where his mother was now, and if she had ever tried to find her baby.

  As the days passed uneventfully, I had a feeling of unreality, as if the tiny village was beyond space and time. Though I’d lost track of the days, one morning I decided that I had to move on. I had to get back to my witch research. And I felt I needed to tell Sabrina about my visions of her daughter, hoping it would give her some comfort in her last days.

  Luis and Grandpa urged me to stay longer, but I had to harden my heart and say no. While I enjoyed their simple company, the goal of my trip—to see the lake and glimpse the yin world—had been accomplished. Somehow being by the lake had evoked the opening of my third eye and enlightened me to the reality of being a shamaness. I’d realized that I’d been given this gift, if that’s what it was, to see something very important. I just didn’t know yet what it was.

  I’d revisited the lake in the daylight and seen nothing remarkable, but I could not bring myself to return in the dark. I simply did not feel the strength to endure another vision of the yin world with its cold and negative energy. I’d quickly realized that the powers of being a shamaness come with a cost. That’s why no one wants the spirits of the dead to visit very often.

  Before my departure, our little group gathered in the church’s backyard for a farewell dinner prepared by Luis. I ate and drank with relish, but the pleasure was bittersweet, since none of us knew if we’d ever meet again. I promised I’d come back to visit, but I doubted any of them believed me.

  The previous day, I’d walked to the bus stop and gone to the nearby town of San Luis to buy gifts for the six villagers. After dinner, I presented the gifts that I’d bought. I gave Grandpa sculpting tools. Though he insisted he was too old and that his inspiration had gone, I knew that sculpting was still his passion. Applying his lessons, I’d sculpted four pieces so far—a woman’s nude torso, a sheep, a mystical bird, and of course the drowning girl who might be Isabelle. I had no illusions that my work was good, but I was happy to have these mementos of the simple, kindly people and the little village.

  For Luis I’d bought a book about China. He was so pleased that he grabbed me and kissed me on my lips in front of the others.


  “Eileen, someday I’ll go to find you, either in China or the U.S., or anywhere,” he said, wiping away tears as everyone clapped.

  Father Fernando received a new bible with a gilt edge. I’d noticed that his old one was falling apart, with pages either torn or missing. Although there was hardly anyone ever in the church, I thought it’d be inappropriate for a priest to make mistakes in his reading. Instead of a kiss, he gave me a blessing with his wooden cross.

  It’d taken me quite some time to think of what to get for Juan. Finally I decided to give him the book of sketches I’d made during my stay in the village. I hoped that it would evoke happy memories of our time together.

  Juan was so happy that he screamed, “Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah!” as he threw himself into my arms. It was a strange feeling to hold a big, grown man as if he were a helpless child.

  To the widow and widower, I gave a shawl and a hat, respectively. Both thanked me with tears in their eyes.

  I felt sad to be leaving the little group, not at all sure that I could keep my promise to return.

  19

  The Dancing Widow

  As I sat on the rickety bus on my way back to Santa Cruz, my stay in the village already seemed like a fairy tale—the feeling of peace, the two young men, so different like yin and yang in intellect, yet alike in their naïveté and purity.

  But as the sage Laozi taught, when things reach their peak, they’ll inevitably begin their decline. So from this seemingly idyllic place I had to return to the messiness of life in the bigger world. I just hoped, despite Father Fernando’s telling me that everyone was leaving, that the village would remain the same, welcoming me with open arms anytime I returned.

  At last the bus entered the city, which seemed bustling and noisy. I checked into the same hotel as before, reclaimed my luggage from the bellman, and took a shower. I was anxious to see Sabrina since she was ill, but was too tired for more travel. I ate arroz con pollo, or chicken with rice, with a glass of local white wine in the hotel restaurant, then went upstairs to sleep.