The Witch's Market

by Mingmei Yip

Genres: Asian American; Cultural Heritage; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

From the author of Secret of a Thousand Beauties and Peach Blossom Pavilion comes a beautifully written novel of self-discovery and intrigue.
 
Chinese-American assistant professor Eileen Chen specializes in folk religion at her San Francisco college. Though her grandmother made her living as a shamaness, Eileen publicly dismisses witchcraft as mere superstition. Yet privately, the subject intrigues her.
 
When a research project takes her to the Canary Islands—long rumored to be home to real witches—Eileen is struck by the lush beauty of Tenerife and its blend of Spanish and Moroccan culture. A stranger invites her to a local market where women sell amulets, charms, and love spells. Gradually Eileen immerses herself in her exotic surroundings, finding romance with a handsome young furniture maker. But as she learns more about the lives of these self-proclaimed witches, Eileen must choose how much trust to place in this new and seductive world, where love, greed, and vengeance can be as powerful, or as destructive, as any magic.

Release date: December 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 332

Sample

When I turned thirty-three, I decided it was time for a big change in my life. It was time to become a witch.

I have to admit that I was not sure if this would be a good idea.

My name is Ai Lian, “love lotus” in Chinese, or Eileen Chen in English. Although I was Western-educated and lived in the modern era, I believed somewhere inside me there lived a witch, at least in spirit. I grew up in a family who believed in anything metaphysical, however implausible.

Both my mother and grandmother were “witches,” or what the Chinese call wu, “shamaness.” Sometimes wu are also referred to as fangshi, people who have mastered the way and thus have the power to manipulate reality.

Both my mother and my grandmother could predict the future, visit the past, see auras, and talk to invisible beings. Unfortunately, Mother had died young in her forties, to the great grief of myself and her own mother, my grandmother, Laolao. Because she had lost her daughter, Laolao wanted me to be a shamaness to carry on the family lineage. Besides healing, casting spells, going into trances, and taking on animal powers, she organized underworld tours. Laolao would also cast the daxiaoren—“beating the petty people” spells. These spells would ensure that the trivial, touchy, gossipy, jealous little men and women who cause us endless troubles got what they deserved.

From my mother and grandmother, I’d learned the basics of witchcraft—empowering amulets, concocting healing herbs, casting spells, communicating with the dead. And the great Chinese tradition of feng shui—finding out if a residence, whether yin for the dead or yang for the living, had good placement and energy flow. Though I was forced to study these skills, I’d never really practiced them. I prided myself on being a modern woman, not an old-fashioned or superstitious one. So, instead of becoming a shamaness like Mother and Laolao, I’d become a scholar of shamanism.

After I’d gotten my Ph.D. in shamanism, I’d started working as an assistant professor at San Francisco State University. Four years had passed and I desperately needed to get a book published in order to get tenure and a promotion to associate professor. The head of the anthropology department, Timothy Lee, had advised me to add a section on Western witchcraft to my dissertation, then publish it as a book. It was an excellent suggestion. However, while I deemed myself pretty knowledgeable about Chinese shamanism, my understanding of its Western counterpart was mainly secondhand from books.

What is a witch anyway? Do they really exist? Are they just ignorant, crazy people who try to scare you to get your money?

I decided that the only way to really know about witches would be to become one myself.

Was I scared? Of course. But I had to write my book, or otherwise I might lose my job. Timothy had hinted that he’d highly recommend me for the promotion—but only if I got my book published. He always deemed me the best candidate because of my cultural background, which was filled with tales of fortune-telling, witchcraft, shamans, vengeful gods, voodoo, juju, and whatnot, actively practiced for 3,000 years from the Stone Age into the electronic era.

Did I really believe in witchcraft? Sometimes yes and sometimes no. I was of two minds. Part of me believed I was a witch born into a long family lineage. Another part, my academic self, kept insisting that I was not a witch, but a normal woman studying witchcraft scientifically.

Either way, I needed to write this book. And to write it I needed to do fieldwork. So I decided to take a year off to look for witches, gather materials in order to write about them, and then, once I had tenure, relax and enjoy life.

At least this was my plan.

It was my thirty-third birthday. In Chinese culture, three is an extremely lucky number, because it is synonymous with the word alive, or “prosperous.” Needless to say, thirty-three is double good luck. So I wanted a special celebration for my once-in-a-lifetime thirty-third birthday.

My birthday fell during midterm exam week, leaving me stuck grading papers. So I was very grateful when my younger sister, Bao Lian—“precious lotus” in Chinese and Brenda in English—offered to organize the party for me. At twenty-nine, Brenda was already a real-estate lawyer aggressively climbing the relentless legal ladder toward partnership. My little sister’s success was in part due to her knowing how to use her charm—especially with men. I suspected Brenda had volunteered to host the party so that she could flirt with my guests—perhaps even my on-and-off boyfriend, Ivan Collins. Her flirting was indiscriminate—anyone male, from her boss and senior colleagues to waiters, doormen, bartenders, taxi drivers, delivery guys.

Whenever I criticized her for this, she’d wink, and say, “Relax, Eileen. Life should be a big party with us all enjoying ourselves!”

As an assistant professor, of course I didn’t have a large apartment to invite friends over to. Luckily, Ivan said we could use his big luxury condo in Pacific Heights as long as we cleaned up afterward. Brenda and I had no problem with that, as we’d both cleaned houses and apartments to work our way through college.

Of course Ivan had only said this as a joke. An investment banker, he could well afford a cleaning lady. Divorced for several years, Ivan had been looking for the right woman and seemed to think that I was the one. I appreciated him for his hard work and generosity but wasn’t comfortable with his take-no-prisoners, overly ambitious approach to life. Nor did I want his hyperactive, jet-setting, breakfast-in-London and dinner-in-Paris lifestyle.

Of course, like most women, I didn’t mind having a rich boyfriend. For some reason I just couldn’t love Ivan back completely and that bothered me. While I felt attracted to his intelligence and success, I found his constant boasting about how much money he had made that week tedious. And so we drifted apart. Since he never complained about our on-and-off relationship, I guessed he must have other women on the side. Or maybe he just hoped that one day I’d come around.

Right now we were in a separation phase, as he put it, to give each other more space and time to reflect on our future. Or maybe it just gave him more space and time for other women. I believed Ivan truly loved me, but I knew he was also aware that if things didn’t work out between us, he could have almost any woman he wanted.

When I talked to Brenda about my intermittent romance, she said, “Eileen, why don’t you just marry Ivan and enjoy a luxurious life? After a few years, if you want, you can get a divorce and live off a big alimony check and child support. So you really have nothing to lose. Listen, big sister, only a crazy woman would let go of such a once-in-a-life-time catch!”

I gave her a dirty look. “Brenda, when did our parents teach us to be so practical and materialistic?”

But she ignored my question. “Trust me, Eileen, you’ve everything to gain and nothing to lose by marrying Ivan. Period.”

I wished I could pass Ivan on to Brenda, but there was no chance of that. At least if he was with Brenda the money would still stay with us—as Brenda wished—and not be wasted on some unknown women. But unfortunately my little sister was too much like the other women Ivan knew—climbing the corporate ladder, chasing after designer clothes, luxury cars, trendy restaurants, and exotic vacation spots—to interest him.

I think Ivan liked me because I was not money and status crazy. He knew I cared more about the other world than this one. With me, he could glimpse a life utterly different from his own. But I worried that Ivan would get tired of me when the initial excitement of having a witchy, professor girlfriend wore off. Anyway, I was not yet ready to take the plunge. Since I was a child, I’d been waiting for something unusual, or big, to happen in my life. Life with Ivan was not it.

For my birthday party, Brenda and I had sent out over thirty invitations to friends and colleagues. But no students were included, because in case the professors got drunk, I didn’t want gossip flying back to the university administration. There was always the risk that when faculty and students got drunk together, remarks would slip out that would later be regretted.

Brenda suggested that the theme should be witchcraft and offered to do the decorations.

I told her, “Fine, but everything should be innocuous, absolutely no creepy stuff like fake corpses or severed hands and arms.”

“At your order, ma’am,” she said. “After all, Halloween is months away.”

Since I had a late-afternoon class to teach on my birthday, I didn’t arrive at Ivan’s apartment until six. Entering his living room, the first thing I noticed was red candles lining the walls, giving the place a cozy, but also eerie, feeling.

Brenda dashed toward me, screaming, “Eileen, happy birthday!”

I eyed my little sister’s long-sleeved red dress. The plunging neckline revealed quite a lot of her bosom. The whole effect was multiplied by her bright red necklace, earrings, and bloody-looking lips. She would get plenty of male attention tonight.

“Thanks, Brenda. Everything’s ready?”

“Of course. You can always count on me, big sister.”

“Good.” I exchanged nods with a few early arrived guests, then turned to Brenda. “Now I need to change.”

Inside Ivan’s marble bathroom, with its gold-rimmed mirror, I took off my pantsuit, refreshed my makeup, and put on my shamaness’s gown. I had decided not to dress in a Western witch’s outfit because I didn’t want to wear black on my birthday. So instead I wore a pink Chinese dress, accessorized by a chunky silver necklace with Daoist motifs: bats for good luck, pears for immortality, and goddesses for beauty and compassion. After piling my hair into a bun and decorating it with a silk pink lotus, I looked at the mirror and was happy with what I saw. A mysterious, exotic shamaness—ready to play tricks or cast spells.

Was it a real witch staring back at me from the mirror? The answer was yet to be found out.

When I went back out to the living room, most of the guests had arrived. They came up to greet me with the obligatory Chinese sayings Brenda had probably just taught them:


After greeting me, people gathered in small groups to talk or, with a glass of wine in hand, walked around to appreciate Ivan’s luxury apartment and his collection of modern paintings, hand-crafted ceramics, Indian statutes, and exotic Mexican masks.

Soon Brenda materialized by my side, took my hand, and led me to a table set up as an altar. “It took me a few hours to set this up. I hope you like it!”

I was relieved that my little sister had kept her promise and hadn’t displayed anything creepy. There were candles, crystal balls, a deck of tarot cards, jars of colorful “medicine,” small plates of exotic herbs, a witch doll with a comical face, a witch bracelet with miniature charms, and a Ouija board for conjuring. The table-turned-altar was bedecked with a floral shawl with long black tassels. To complete the scene, Ivan’s black cat, dressed up by Brenda in a witch’s cape and hat, posed regally on the altar as if she were the real boss of this party.

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 let 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.

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. . .