The Witch's Market (11 page)

It looked like she was still high maintenance despite being supposedly penniless.

“Now I'm old, so I need to pay for company. You think Diego would stick around otherwise? I've turned from a beautiful woman pursued relentlessly by men to an old hag relentlessly pursuing men. . . . Hahaha! Karma, isn't it?”

Her self-denigration was getting tedious.

“Sabrina, stop putting yourself down—please!”

I shivered as a chilly wind gusted over the cemetery.

Sabrina looked up, her eyes tired. “I'm sorry to bore you with an old woman's sorrows. Eileen, tell me more about yourself.”

I didn't think she was really interested, but I told her anyway about my grandmother, Laolao, my teaching job, and about my on-and-off relationship with Ivan. I ended by saying, “My life must not sound very interesting to you.”

But when I looked up I saw that her eyes were round like two shiny coins.

“No!” she said. “I envy you. What a fulfilling and adventurous life! I hope you'll marry this rich Ivan and have lots of children. I also pray that I'll live long enough to visit you two in America.”

“You'd be most welcome. But right now Ivan is just a friend, not my boyfriend. I'm not sure I really want to marry him.”

“Of course you should! Eileen, don't be stupid! You've got a rich man, hang on to him! I won't let myself die until I get your wedding invitation, how's that?” Then she sighed heavily. “But if you put the day off too long, I won't make it.”

I patted her swollen hand. “Don't be so pessimistic, my friend. You never know, life is full of surprises, right?”

“Sorry, but there will be no surprise about this.” Her eyes looked even hollower in the lengthening shadows. “I won't be around when it happens, but I am sure that you'll successfully write your book and get tenure. But I know that someday you will accomplish something even bigger and better.”

“Like what, is being a professor and writing books not good enough?”

“I don't know what it will be, but it will be something completely out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe . . .”

“I'm sure. But it's getting chilly out here, so let's go back to my place, now that you two are acquainted.”

“Me and who?”

“You and Isabelle, who else? Trust me, she's been listening.”

Maybe the dead do listen to us, but whatever they may think about us, they keep to themselves.

 

Back at Sabrina's home, after we'd sat down and been brought snacks and drinks by the maid, Sabrina handed me a notebook.

“Isabelle's diary. Take a look so you'll have a better idea of her.”

Of course I was curious to read the thoughts of this woman who had died young and whom I'd never met—except somehow we had met, first on the ferry and then when she came into my dream. But it made me a little uncomfortable that Sabrina was so eager to introduce her dead daughter to a stranger from a far-off land. Maybe all mothers love their daughters so much they must share them with the world, whether beautiful or plain, vibrantly alive or long dead.

I caressed the pages of the diary with my hand. “You're not afraid that I'll lose it?”

“No, I can tell you're a very careful person who values what is important. But you needn't worry, because this is only a copy. The original is locked in my safe. Believe it or not, I haven't read all of it, so maybe there are things I don't yet know about Isabelle.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Of course. Maybe someday I'll read all of it, but it's too painful now.”

By my estimate, twenty years had passed. So when would she be ready? Probably never.

“Soon I will be in the place where everything is forgotten,” said Sabrina. “But you will still be here to remember her.”

“But why me?”

“Because I feel that you two are connected in some way. I don't want you to miss out.”

“Miss out on what?”

“I'm not sure, exactly. But I know that whatever it is, it will be very important for you.”

I was glad for this time with Sabrina because I'd learned more about witches and about her departed daughter. But being around her was spooky, too, with all her talk of how I was connected to the dead girl, who seemed to have decided to haunt me in my dreams.

I'd come to the island to have strange experiences, but I seemed to be getting more than I'd bargained for. Maybe Laolao was right and my destiny was to carry on the family tradition and become a shamaness—whether I wanted to or not. If there is such a thing as destiny, it is chosen for us. It just seemed particularly odd that I had to learn about my own destiny from dead people.

14

Isabelle's Diary

A
fter I left Sabrina's house I walked to the bus stop and waited almost half an hour for the bus back to my hotel. I was extremely eager to read the diary, but somehow I did not want to take it out where it could be seen by others.

Once I was back in my room, I sat on the bed and immediately opened Isabelle's diary to the first page.

That evening, Isabelle came into my dream again. At first she stared silently at me with her sad, curious eyes, as if we were under the sea together.

“Why do you come to see me?” I asked her.

“I'm your spiritual sister.”

“I already have a sister. Her name is Brenda and she works as a lawyer in San Francisco.”

“That doesn't matter. We might even have been real sisters during the Tang dynasty one thousand years ago. So you must do something for me.”

“What's that?”

“Go to the lake near the small village. Then you'll know.”

“Know what?”

“How I died.”

“You don't know yourself? You drowned, remember?”

“That's what people say, but I think . . .”

“What?”

“There's this lake near a village.”

“What lake and what village?”

“The village nearest my dada's castle. And there's the lake where I supposedly drowned.”

“Who's your father?”

“You know who. My father. And my lover.”

Just then she vanished and I woke up, feeling distressed. What if the dream was true? Even if Alfredo was not her biological father . . . I didn't want to think about it.

Though I would never have admitted to anyone that it was because of a dream, I decided I would go to the lake, in case I really could learn something.

The next morning, after having breakfast at the hotel, with the dream still lingering in my mind, I saw an article in the local newspaper.

After hearing this news I decided to postpone my trip to the lake and instead go see the exorcism. Fortunately, as usual on the islands, the weather was pleasant with a light breeze blowing from the south, the most auspicious direction. When I reached the area where the crack had occurred I saw that a small crowd had already gathered under a nearby tree. Its roots extended deep into the ground, as if they were trying to offer comfort to the vanished man and dog. Among the crowd were several men snapping pictures, either reporters or just tourists. Parents held on to tugging children, already bored with waiting.

Finally, a small procession of solemn-faced men in exotic robes approached the area. The head priest, dressed in a white and gold robe, kept dipping a brush into a silver vessel and sprinkling the water on the ground. As he approached I could hear the priests chanting in low, resonant voices.

Soon the simple ritual was over and onlookers began to disperse. To my surprise, however, no one, neither the priests nor the audience, seemed to have paid any attention to the faint cracks on the ground. Somehow I felt I could read them, and they seemed to say:

I wondered if I was having hallucinations, so as a young man walked by I stopped him, and asked, “Señor, do you see those cracks on the ground?”

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Don't you see those cracks over there?”

“Hmmm . . . yes, señorita, but cracks are everywhere, so what's so special about these?”

He cast me a strange look, then sauntered away, shaking his head. I realized I was going to have to get used to seeing things that other people could not. I sensed that my crack readings—real or imaginary—were telling me something important. But what?

I decided to return to my hotel because I wanted to finish Isabelle's diary so I could give it back to Sabrina. Though I was fascinated by this thin book, it also evoked fear. I was peering into the soul of a dead person.

Back in my room, I poured a glass of mineral water and braved myself to continue to read Isabelle's diary. I opened the notebook at random and came upon:

I flipped to another page and read:

I was eager to discover what happened after the confrontation, so I skimmed through the rest of the diary but found nothing more about it. On the final page I read:

It sounded like she was leading up to more unhappiness and I wanted to sleep this night at least without disturbing dreams. So I set the book aside and turned out the light.

 

The next day I was once again on the rickety bus to Sabrina's home. She welcomed me and prepared a pot of tea while I waited on her worn couch. I took a few sips of tea before gathering up my courage.

“Sabrina, I need to ask—how did Isabelle die?”

“I told you, she drowned.” She looked down at her hands that were tightly clasped. “I never liked her diving, but it was her passion. She sold some of her photographs to magazines but never made very much.”

“But she must have been an experienced diver. How could she have drowned?”

“She was too smart to have drowned by accident.” Sabrina took a gulp of brandy and grimaced. “I almost have the feeling that Isabelle didn't want to live in this evil world. I always suspected . . .”

“What?”

She sighed. “Isabelle was pure and innocent. She wanted to believe everyone else was as good as she was. She didn't belong here.”

I struggled to digest what she'd just told me.

My friend stared at me, her eyes full of misery. “If it wasn't an accident or she didn't kill herself, there's a third possibility.”

“Which is?”

“That she was murdered.”

I shook my head. “Oh no! Why would anyone have killed her? What would be the motive? Did the police investigate?”

Sabrina didn't answer but just looked down, shaking her head. I thought of Isabelle, setting out for a dive to calm herself and then never returning.

I knew Sabrina did not want to say any more, but I pressed her anyway. “Do you think the culprit might be . . .” But I just couldn't say his name.

“You've met him,” she said.

“Who?”

This time she didn't respond. I sipped my tea and watched her pour herself more brandy.

Finally, she spoke. “Eileen, I'm so happy that we met. I hope you can find out how Isabelle really died.”

“Isabelle has been gone for two decades. I'm a scholar, not a detective. Sometimes even experienced divers drown. Just like good drivers can have accidents.”

I feared I had been insensitive, but Sabrina looked unperturbed.

Suddenly it occurred to me that hearing of my dreams might be of some comfort to her, so I said, “Isabelle came in my dreams a couple of times.”

Her eyes brightened. “Did my daughter say anything?”

“She told me to go look for a lake here on Tenerife Island.”

“Yes, that's where it happened. Please go there and see what you can discover.”

Thinking of the lake, I was reminded of the cracks in the earth. Rationally, I knew I should ignore this, but Laolao had fed so much metaphysics into my mind that I could not dismiss such thoughts. I always remembered my grandmother's constant warnings: “Don't dismiss signs! Pay attention to them or you'll never know what you missed. If you really listen, the world is full of voices that you need to hear.”

I couldn't tell if Sabrina felt better or worse after talking about her deceased daughter. I did not want her to become despondent, so I promised I would visit the lake and tell her what I found.

 

Back in the hotel, I bought a map of the area, hoping to get a better idea of where things were. I saw Heartbreak Castle, and the pond where Cecily and her fellow witches had danced. Then, farther away, there was another blue area, labeled “Past Life Lake.”