Free The Witch's Market by Mingmei Yip Page B

fellow passengers as the antique vehicle rattled along the pothole-filled road. Most looked like farm families, their faces leathery from the years spent under the bright sun, dressed in worn, baggy clothes. There were a few hippie world travelers, one sneaking a joint that he hid in between tokes. Animals made up a significant portion of the passengers: chickens, no doubt about to provide a family meal, a few bedraggled dogs, and one cat, bits of its ear missing from previous fights and pink skin showing where his fur had fallen out. Although I was somewhat entertained by the contrast with the buses I rode in San Francisco, I was relieved when I finally arrived at the marketplace.
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    The Witches’ Market was adjacent to the main public market area but somewhat hidden behind the back of a huge building, so that people were unlikely to find it unless they knew where to look. Although I had a general idea of where it was, I wandered around for a while before I found it.
    The first thing that struck me was that all the vendors, and nearly all of the customers as well, were women. Though many fit the stereotype of wrinkled old crones, some were young and pretty. A few even had a young child in tow. Women vendors were mostly dressed in what seemed to be the regional costume of long skirts, tasseled shawls under wide-brimmed hats, and short boots or sandals.
    Offered for sale were vials of colorful medicine and herbs, packets of seeds for medicinal or magical plants, pendulums and other paraphernalia for divination, amulets, paper charms for good luck—and probably also for curses.
    A few people cast me curious glances, but none expressed hostility toward the exotic stranger intruding upon their territory. I wondered if there was something about me that other witches, like Cecily, could sense. Though I looked different from them on the outside, we were comrades.
    Besides witches’ supplies, more ordinary items were on display: fruit, vegetables, cans of soda, batteries, as well as beads, plastic jewelry, bolts of hand-dyed fabric and piles of ready-made dresses, animal skins, small carpets, even ordinary household items like pots, thermoses, mirrors, toys, and plastic flowers. It was an odd assortment of traditional handicrafts and prosaic, manufactured items.
    Though most of the crowd was obviously local, besides myself there were a few other tourists. They stood out in their shorts and sandals with large cameras hanging over their T-shirts. The tourists particularly attracted the attention of beggars with vacant eyes and blank expressions, squatting behind chipped bowls. Children ran around chasing the tourists with constant giggles and dirty, outstretched hands. At a corner, a bedraggled man of indeterminate age was blowing notes from a flute, sometimes disjointed, sometimes smooth—just like life’s journey.
    Anxious to obtain documentation for my book, I took out my camera and furiously snapped pictures of everything in sight. After that, I sat down at the corner of a building, took out my notebook, and wrote down my impressions.
    When I looked up I noticed that children were crowding around one particular stall. Somehow this seemed to be pointed toward my possible destiny, so I stood up and headed over to the stall. A woman dressed all in black was laying out brightly colored tarot cards on a black velvet cloth. She was obviously a witch, or pretending to be one. Seemingly in her forties, she had a cunning look with a high nose and equally high cheekbones.
    Her table was more decorated than most of the others, with a bowl of fresh roses as well as a scattering of crystals of varied size, shape, and color. As if to match her decorations, her face was heavily made up. She noticed me right away, perhaps because I seemed to be the only Asian person in the market. Her half-gloved and many-ringed hand shooed the children away, then signaled me to sit across from her. As if under a spell, I obeyed.
    Since