The Witch's Market (3 page)

3

The Lineage of the Shamaness

W
henever I was worried about the future I felt again the pain of losing my grandmother, Laolao. When she was alive, I relied on her advice about all sorts of things. Now I wished I could ask her to predict my future with Ivan. Would we, despite my reservations, end up marrying, having kids, and living happily ever after? Or would we marry and eventually head for divorce? Either he would have an affair or I would tire of his constant money craziness. Brenda always pointed out that if I were divorced from him I'd get plenty of alimony and child support payments. But I was not going to marry someone just to get alimony.

I'd trusted Laolao's prediction, for she'd enjoyed a reputation among the Chinese for accuracy, based on her skill with the
I Ching,
the ancient 3,000-year-old
Book of Changes
.

As a shamaness, Laolao had many supernatural talents:
feng shui,
fortune-telling, mind reading, even accompanying people on journeys to the underworld—or so she'd told me. Another talent she was hired for was
daxiaoren,
beating the petty people. When we lived in Hong Kong, Laolao supported all of us by performing this ritual. Her “office” was a deserted space under the Goose Neck Bridge in the Wanchai area that was occupied mainly by the poor: coolies, street vendors, construction workers, even prostitutes serving British sailors. Probably wanting to keep us away from her rough clients, Laolao never allowed Brenda and me to go with her. But one time we secretly followed her to her “office.” But instead of finding her rituals scary, we found them funny.

Around six, my grandma Laolao sat on a small wooden stool under the Goose Neck Bridge and waited for the workers pouring out from the nearby buildings, factories, and restaurants. We could hear as they told her their problems, often about petty people spreading malicious rumors about them or otherwise stirring up trouble. Many were getting a hard time from family members. Brenda and I had to suppress giggles when one man, a particularly handsome one, said he had a mistress who was pushing him to leave his wife. He couldn't decide if he wanted Laolao to “beat” his wife or his mistress—so either one would leave or leave him alone.

Laolao had explained to us that “beating the petty person” is a very old Chinese tradition. Implements used in the ritual included a small stool, writing paper, paper cutouts resembling human figures, a pair of shoes (preferably the owner's), pork fat, green beans, sesame seeds, duck eggs, and a small tiger statue.

Laolao would ask her troubled clients to put their enemies' name and age on a piece of paper. Then the victims would tell their grudges to Lord Tiger, known to be the protector against evil spirits, demons, villains, as well as the bringer of good luck and wealth. To bribe the tiger, she would grease the statute's mouth with pork fat, then offer him the duck egg. Laolao would sprinkle the tiger with green beans and sesame seeds to symbolize the falling away of problems. After that, she'd use her wooden clog to beat the paper figure, representing the petty person, as she cursed, loudly calling out the villain's name and saying:

The next day, more often than not, the client would find that petty person—a gossiper, backstabber, troublemaker, or husband stealer—was in trouble or had fallen ill. By helping others in this way, Laolao also helped us by being able to bring home an extra dish for dinner—soy sauce chicken, pepper and salt shrimp, glistening roast duck. If business was extra good, the dish would upgrade to my favorite—crispy suckling pig that made a
crack, crack, crack
sound when I chewed on it!

Eventually Laolao was able to quit her honorable profession of “beating the petty person.” She had become a rich and successful shamaness with a real office in Causeway Bay and upgraded her business to the less sordid one of communicating with the dead. Laolao boasted that not only could she see those “no longer existing,” the respected dead, she could also charge people basically for talking to the air. But when I asked her if she really possessed the
yin
eye, her answer was always evasive like this: “How do you think I raised your mother into such a big woman to give birth to you and your sister?”

So the secret of what she believed about her
yin
eye, she carried with her to the
yin
world.

Her new “office” was indoors, under a staircase instead of under a bridge. In old, dilapidated buildings in Hong Kong, spaces below staircases were mostly used as storage areas, stuffed with discarded furniture, worn-out clothes, and bags whose contents were long forgotten. Sometimes the landlord would clear this space and rent it cheaply to a single man as residence or to a family to be used as their dining room. In Laolao's case, it was for meeting with clients.

In this cozy—from a child's point of view—little area, Laolao set up a small, round, wooden table with three stools and a lamp. On the walls she pasted lurid pictures of Daoist gods and goddesses. Here Laolao summoned the loved ones of the bereaved. Blindfolded with a red cloth, she'd tilt her head to show she was listening very carefully, then repeat messages in the loved ones' voices.

As word got around regarding Laolao's talent of speaking for the dead, her business thrived. Because people would get sore muscles very quickly in the cramped space, they'd quickly pay and leave to make room for the next customer.

When the dead spoke through Laolao, their words were always simple and curt. Her explanation was that she couldn't let the dead dwell in her for too long since that would exhaust her and endanger her health. She emphasized over and over that, though paid, she was in fact doing her customers a huge favor by renting her body to their dead relatives and friends.

 

Laolao had once told me about a young woman who had come to her to find her deceased lover. But this was one of the rare times that Laolao couldn't speak for the ghost. The woman got very angry, calling Laolao an imposter and demanding her money back.

I asked my grandmother what had happened, and she said, “It's not that I couldn't reach her lover; it was because the man was a murderer and I didn't want to deal with him!”

Before I had a chance to ask more, Laolao continued. “Of course I could still let him talk to her through me. But I'd found out he was a con man planning to kill her to get her money. But then he put the poison into her mother's soup by mistake. She should have told me that he'd been caught and was executed—she was lucky to be rid of the bastard.

“He reincarnated as a cat and was hit by a bus. You know, Eileen, I couldn't possibly let my customer talk to a cat's ghost.”

“Why not?”

“Am I supposed to just sit here and meow?!”

I never found out if Laolao made this all up for fun or really believed it.

And soon after that, Laolao died.

It happened on a day when my grandmother was seeing a customer as usual. A Mrs. Song had asked Laolao to speak to her stillborn baby. But the negative
qi
emanating from Mrs. Song's body made Laolao extremely uncomfortable. However, since Laolao had already meditated and been paid to open her
yin
eye, she felt obligated to continue. All at once, she clutched her throat and her face turned paper white as she exclaimed, “Ahh . . . Ahh . . . Ahhhh . . .” as if choked by invisible hands. Under the eyes of waiting customers, she slid to the floor, dead.

Laolao had never seen a doctor in her life, so I had no idea about the state of her health, or what caused her to die so suddenly. The only explanation I ever received was from Laolao's friend, who told me it was Mrs. Song's dead baby who'd taken Laolao's life.

“But how, since he was a baby and dead at that?”

“Ghost babies can be very powerful. You know parents have to appease their baby's ghost by giving a proper burial and hiring monks to chant sutras for its soul. Sometimes people adopt ghost babies to harass their enemies.”

“How can that be?”

“It was after Mrs. Song learned that her husband had been cheating that she lost the baby. After the baby died, she secretly fed her baby's ghost with all kinds of goodies so his
yin qi
built up and he could go out to harass her husband's mistress.”

“Then what happened?”

“The mistress felt her body being pierced by hundreds of needles—the ghost baby used her body as a target for throwing daggers. The pain became so severe that she couldn't have sex, so finally the man left her and went back to his wife, Mrs. Song.”

“You really think this is what happened?”

“Oh, I know these things.” She paused and went on. “Then this ghost baby also killed your grandmother.”

“Why?”

“That was when Laolao tried to talk to him. Somehow the baby ghost mistook your grandmother for his father's mistress and scared poor Laolao to death.”

Even though this sounded like complete nonsense, it was still very scary. So, despite Laolao's wish, I decided not to carry on her lineage as a shamaness but instead to study it safely as a scholar.

One time before her death, when I asked if the dead really spoke through her, Laolao's answer was, “Just because a person is dead doesn't mean he or she turns mute!”

“But do they really speak through you?”

“That's not for me to decide. I'm only doing my job as a medium.” She cast me a chiding glance. “It's impossible to find out, so don't even try.”

“Why not?”

“Because the answer lies beyond this world.”

Dissatisfied with my grandmother's evasions, I decided to find out for myself, by becoming a scholar and researching shamanism and witchcraft.

Laolao did not approve of my choice of profession. “Why be a professor lecturing to bored students? Why not be a shamaness like me? Besides, I make more than a professor.”

“I like to teach—” I began.

“Can you teach about the dead?” She rolled her eyes. “Dead means dead, period!”

“Then how come you talk to them?”

“I don't. They come to me. I just lend them my body.”

“So, is what you do real or not?”

“Everything in this world and the other is real.” She knocked hard on the table, then my head. “See? Things and people exist. The dead are the same people; the only difference is that we talk about them in the past tense.”

I didn't understand her logic, so the argument ended. She never gave me a straight answer and so this woman with whom I spent much of my early life remained a puzzle to me.

PART TWO

4

Journey to the West

T
imothy Lee and the dean granted my request of a one-year leave and found some grant funds to modestly support me. Hearing the good news, I immediately called Ivan to discuss my tentative plans to travel to places I'd never even known existed until a few weeks ago.

He paused for a moment before asking, “Eileen, you really want to go to this non-place—why not Paris, or at least Madrid?”

I couldn't tell him that it was because of what a tree had told me in a dream.

“I need to do fieldwork so I can write a book. Otherwise, no tenure and no job.”

“Then marry me and I'll support you.”

I raised my voice. “I'm not joking, Ivan!”

“Neither am I. But what exactly are you going to do there? When will you be back?”

“Maybe in a year. I need to find witches, interview them, learn what they do, collect some of their juju stuff. Then I can write my book on comparative witchcraft. Maybe I'll learn how to put a spell on you too.”

“You know I'd wait forever for you. But a whole year? Geezzzz!”

“Ivan, I don't expect you to wait.” But I stopped short of telling him he would be free to pursue any woman he wanted—or that I might find a new man.

I figured all women were as selfish as I. Even though he's your ex, you still want him to think about you, be ready to dash to your side if you need help, and ideally, remain single the rest of his life nursing his broken heart, because he will never find your equal. Or secretly hope you'll change your mind someday and return to him.

I could not suppress a giggle.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing, Ivan, it's not about you. Anyway, I'll come back. Maybe you can visit me there.”

“What gave you this crazy idea?”

“Well, it's hard to explain, but it started with a dream. . . .”

Now he sounded a bit angry. “So, you decide to leave me and go to a few strange islands you know nothing about all by yourself. All of this because of a dream?”

“Sorry, Ivan, but I've already booked my ticket.”

“All right, then. I know how stubborn you are.”

There was a pause before he spoke again. “Will you be safe there?”

“I'll be very careful. I speak Spanish, remember, so at least I can ask around if I get lost.”

I actually felt a little disappointed that all of sudden Ivan wasn't persuading me to stay. Was this a sign that we really were breaking up, this time for good? That while I was away, Ivan was actually going to look for another girl? It would be my fault, not his.

I decided to put Ivan and our uncertain relationship out of my mind and busied myself preparing for my trip to the Canary Islands.

There seemed to be lots of supernatural stories about the islands. They were even mentioned in Homer's
Odyssey
. Legend recounted how, borne on gentle breezes, many had sailed to their doom on these islands, believed to hold golden apples hidden in a cave. The cave was supposedly guarded by beautiful nymphs who were actually wild animals ready to rip the sailors apart.

I wasn't worried about wild animals but wasn't sure how safe the countryside would be for a foreign woman traveling by herself. So I decided to stay on the Grand Canary Island first, since it seemed the most modernized. Then I'd figure out the rest of my itinerary.

Between shopping trips, I went to the gym to build up my muscle strength and stamina for what might be a physically demanding trip. I tried to eat well and sleep well. I did have sex a few times with Ivan, though he always wanted more. I told him this was my farewell gift to him—in my opinion, much more generous than anything I could afford to buy him.

Looking for real witches was not the only reason for my trip. Since my string-breaking I wanted to test whether I really possessed special powers. And, of course, advice from a tree is unusual enough that one needs to consider it seriously. But I also needed a break from Ivan. Over the four years of our relationship, I felt that my spirit was confined by his overly money-conscious one.

The trip would be an escape, during which I could perhaps figure out what I really wanted in life—and in love. Did I need to be spoiled rotten with material things? Or was it adventure and mystery that I really craved? For Ivan, travel was just another chance to flash his wealth. I won't say I didn't get enjoyment from this, but I feared it would soon seem hollow. I also feared he would tire of me—or any other woman—after a few years. I did not want to end up like poor Mrs. Song.

But for now I'd set it all aside and focus on my goal. I wasn't sure if the trip would be a good move, but because of my dream I'd come to believe it was part of my destiny. I wondered if my journey would be like that of the three heroes in the famous Chinese novel
Journey to the West
. In the story a monk and his companions, a pig and a monkey, travel west from China to India in search of mystical truth in the form of Buddhist sutras.

On the way they cross treacherous seas and encounter endless adventures such as climbing the Flaming Mountain, passing the Water Curtain Cave, entering the Entangled Silk Grotto inhabited by spider seductresses, even plunging to the pit of hell. Most dangerous of all were the many demons along their journey, all of whom wanted a chunk of the high monk Xuan Zhuang's flesh because they believed that eating it would give them immortality.

Braving all these dangers, the four made their way safely back to China with the sutras. I was not so arrogant as to compare myself to these intrepid travelers. I only hoped that, like them, I'd survive whatever adventures awaited me and bring back not soul-saving sutras but a humble book to gain tenure with. And, if I was lucky, a collection of stories to entertain my grandchildren during my old age.

Ivan promised to see me off at the airport, but at the last minute couldn't make it; he had to participate in an international conference call with several rich clients. To compensate, he paid for a fancy limo for Brenda and me. But of course I'd rather have had his company—and his help with my luggage.

I slept fitfully during the long overseas flights, alternating worrying about what I was leaving behind and what awaited me. I wondered if I was being courageous or stupid. Brenda certainly thought the latter. For her, leaving behind a rich boyfriend was simply crazy.

Just before I'd boarded the plane, she'd said, “Sister, you're hopeless, but I still care about you. So be careful not to fall into a volcano in any of those islands! Or end up cooked in a witch's cauldron!”

We both laughed and hugged. She waved as I stepped onto the plane.

 

When the plane finally touched down on the Grand Canary Island's runway, I felt a huge jolt both on my bottom and in my brain. At that moment I wished I were back in my familiar surroundings with my sister and maybe even with Ivan. According to Brenda, this would be the biggest mistake I'd ever made.

However, I was happily surprised that the Aeropuerto de Gando airport on Grand Canary Island was clean, spacious, and quite modern. After going through immigration and passing by people jabbering in Spanish and other exotic languages, I went up to the hotel booth and booked a rather expensive one—Santa Teresa—in the capital, Las Palmas.

The taxi drove along the highway with the sea on one side and hills on the other. Red-roofed and white-walled houses were scattered along the edge of the hills. There were many buildings with huge pipes jutting up, I assumed for converting seawater to fresh, as I'd read about in the guide books.

The weather was as pleasant as the books had promised: soothing breezes under a warming sun. Strangely I felt a subtle familiarity, as if I'd been here before. But I also felt anxious, wondering what sort of strange things went on in the wooded hills.

Finally the taxi pulled to a stop in front of my hotel. I paid, got my luggage, registered at the counter, and then entered my room—all in one swift motion, like running-style calligraphy. Despite being fatigued from the long flights, I forced myself to unpack and take a shower. Feeling somewhat refreshed, I went down to the lobby and approached the concierge desk, behind which stood a bearded young man in a neat gray uniform.

I tried out my Spanish, a little rusty since college. “Señor, I've just arrived here; can you recommend anything worth seeing?”

Of course I did not ask him where I could find witches.

He eyed me curiously. “From China, señorita?”

“Chinatown, San Francisco.”

He studied me with curiosity. “You speak Spanish well for a foreigner.”

“How do you know Spanish?”

“Because as a child, it was my dream to marry Picasso, not knowing that he's already married—and dead.”

He laughed, his teeth gleaming under the lobby's bright lighting.

“Yes, he was the greatest artist of all. Señorita, if you're going to stay longer, you should definitely see all seven islands. However, I recommend you go to Tenerife Island tomorrow if you can.”

“Why Tenerife and why tomorrow?”

“Don't you know that Tenerife is called the Jewel of the Atlantic and is the most popular of the seven islands? It's paradise there!”

“Of course I've read about it in guide books, but why tomorrow?”

“Believe me,” he said, and his eyes shot out some mysterious sparks, “go there tomorrow and you won't be disappointed. I promise. It's our famous carnival. Then you can come back here. If you take the express ferry, it's only about an hour's ride, an easy trip.”

He pulled out a small book. “My advice is to get the round-trip boat tickets now, since they're almost sold out.”

“All right.” I was eager to catch the carnival. For me, the best way to learn about a place is to visit its markets and holiday events. You learn a lot about a place by seeing how the inhabitants enjoy themselves.

Along with my ticket he handed me a brochure on Tenerife Island. “Don't forget to bring a big hat and sunscreen. It's very hot during the day.”

Back in my room, suddenly overcome by jet lag and exhaustion, I collapsed on the bed. I awoke after dark and, after calling Ivan and Brenda to tell them I'd arrived safely, I decided not to go out, but rather to eat a good meal at the hotel's restaurant and then have a full night's sleep.

 

Awakening early the next morning, I went down to the small hotel café for breakfast. Whether it was jet lag, or the sea air, or something else, I was ravenous and ate everything in sight: fresh-squeezed orange juice, rolls, yogurt, muesli, a cereal with raw rolled oats, grains, fruits, seeds, and nuts mixed with milk, fresh-baked bread, fruit salad, pungent coffee, and a bowl of
gofio,
a local cereal made from barley. Since Laolao always said that a good breakfast is the best start to a good day, I felt happy and hopeful.

An hour later, I was among other tourists on the boat to Tenerife Island. There were about twenty people, casually dressed in T-shirts, jeans or shorts, and sneakers or flip-flops. Most wore wide-brimmed hats. Looking excited, they busied themselves snapping pictures of their family and friends against the background of the turquoise sea and the gray sand of the beach. Next to me were two young men with serious expressions, talking in English. One phrase caught my attention: “You know I had another of my premonitions—my sixth sense tells me that something bad is going to happen.”

The other one chuckled. “So you think this boat will sink, or a volcano will erupt?”

“Ed, it's no joke, something tragic is going to happen.” He pointed to the sky. “It may come from up there”—he pointed to the ground—“or down here.”

I had the feeling that the friend was used to his companion's prognostications and did not take them too seriously.

He replied, somewhat jocularly, “Then maybe it won't affect us. 'Cause we're both going to Tenerife and back by boat.”

The guy with the sixth sense remained silent, looking very somber. Despite the bright sun, I felt a chill. I had come here expecting to find strange events, so I thought I should talk to them to find out more. But then I dismissed the premonition as idle talk and turned to look around at the other passengers.

Besides these two men, only one other person attracted my attention. She was a Caucasian woman, about twenty, but somehow seemed both familiar and unusual. She wore long sleeves that flapped in the breeze. Elbow against the rail, she gazed into the distance of the empty sea. Unlike the others, instead of tanned, her face appeared ghostly pale. A distinct feature was the mole between her brows. She carried no camera, not even a purse. But what really contrasted with the lively crowd was her lugubrious expression. Was she pondering the sadness of life and the inevitability of death? Would hers be the tragedy the English-speaking man had just predicted? Suddenly I felt a wave of fear that she had taken the boat ride so she could jump into the sea.

No one seemed to share my anxiety for her. Though her pretty face and mournful expression stood out among the boisterous and excited tourists, only I seemed to notice her. Not even the young man with his ominous prediction.

Finally the ship arrived at Tenerife. No sooner was the boat made fast to the dock than the passengers poured off and dispersed in all directions. I searched in vain for a sight of the pale-faced girl but could not find her in the dense crowd.

Locals and tourists alike were craning their necks and snapping pictures, as policemen frantically blew whistles to control the traffic. Along the shore came a procession of people in colorful masks and costumes, dancing to cheerful, boisterous music. From the windows of the buildings lining the street people leaned out, cheering. Revelers released large balloons, turning the sky into a sea of huge, colorful bubbles. On a TV bus, crews with intense expressions aimed their cameras at the parades.