Version 2007.03.04

## “The Witch's Dream: A Healer's Way of Knowledge” - ©1985 by Florinda Donner-Grau

### Chapter 28

Two weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, dona Mercedes announced that she had to go to El Rincón.

"Has Clara taken ill again?" I asked, alarmed.

"No," dona Mercedes said, rising from the hammock in her bedroom. "I want to make sure she follows my instructions: She's a willful patient."

Dona Mercedes rested her hands on my shoulders. "Today, you and I will help Clara. Together we'll move the wheel of chance for her."

She turned to the blue and pink painted wardrobe that blocked the door facing the street, and fumbled with the key.

Before unlocking it, she looked back at me and said, "Gather all your clothes and put them in your jeep.

"Seeing that you're packed, Clara will think you are leaving for Caracas. She may decide to take advantage of the ride.

"In the depths of her, she knows that she will be well only if she leaves El Rincón."

I was really surprised at the scarcity of my belongings. I had brought much more, but then I remembered that I had given away most of what I had to some of Agustin's young patients.

"Clara's story is a sort of bonus to you," dona Mercedes said as she helped me put my bag in the jeep. "At least I didn't expect it.

"It came out of nowhere, but it's very appropriate.

"I encouraged you to talk to Clara and to spend time with her. Under her shadow, I'm sure you have felt the turns of the wheel of chance in her life.

"She's another person with a natural gift; a natural control over the witch's shadow."

Definitely, Clara was a very strong person. I felt that her emotional conflicts made her rather somber: She seemed, at least to me, always preoccupied; reflecting on something unsaid.

Dona Mercedes agreed with my assessment of Clara, and added that Clara needed our combined help.

"Let me put it this way," she said.

"Clara is so strong that she has now engaged your witch's shadow and mine to move the wheel of chance for her."

"What is the meaning of that, dona Mercedes?"

"It means that you and I are going to help her leave, not so much because we're good Samaritans, but because she is forcing us to do it."

There was a strong compulsion in me to disagree with her or, rather, to set the record straight.

"Nobody is forcing me to do anything," I said.

Dona Mercedes peered at me quizzically, her glance half-pitying, half-mocking: Then she lifted my bag, and gently placed it on the back seat.

"You mean to say you wouldn't move a finger to help her?" she asked in a whisper.

"No. I didn't say that. I merely said that Clara is not forcing me at all. I'd gladly do it all by myself without her asking me."

"Ah, there is the link. Clara forces us without saying a word.

"Neither you nor I could remain impassive. In one way or another, we have been under her shadow too long."

Through the rearview mirror I could still see Candelaria, a hazy lonely figure waving farewell. She had fastened a yellow, blue, and red plastic pinwheel to the jeep's antenna. It whirled noisily in the wind.

"Do you think Candelaria wanted to come with us to Caracas?" I asked dona Mercedes.

"No," she mumbled: Dona Mercedes had already settled in her seat to doze. "Candelaria hates Caracas. She always gets a headache the moment she reaches the outskirts of the capital."

As soon as I brought the jeep to a full stop in front of El Rincón, dona Mercedes, not waiting for me to help her out, alighted from the car, and dashed into the house.

Swiftly, I caught up with her, and followed her toward the swishing sound of a broom.

It was Clara cleaning the patio.

She looked up. She smiled but did not speak to us.

She seemed to be sweeping the silence and the shadows, for there wasn't a single leaf on the ground.

Dona Mercedes lit two candles on the stone ledge circling the fountain.

She closed her eyes and waited for Clara to finish.

"I did all you told me to do," Clara said, sitting between the two lit candles.

Dona Mercedes did not look at her but began to sniff the air, trying to identify some elusive scent.

"Listen carefully, Clara," she said shortly. "The only thing that will keep you well is to leave this house."

"Why should I leave it?" Clara asked, alarmed. "Grandfather left it to me. He wanted me to stay here."

"He wanted you to have the house," dona Mercedes corrected her. "He did not want you to stay here. Don't you remember he said that to you before he died?"

Seemingly indifferent to Clara's mounting agitation, dona Mercedes lit a cigar.

She smoked with slow, even puffs and began to massage Clara's head and shoulders.

She blew the smoke around her, as if she were outlining her form against the air.

"This house is inhabited by ghosts and memories that don't belong to you, Clara," she went on. "You were only a guest in this house.

"You ruled this place from the moment you arrived because you had luck and strength. These two forces were disguised in you as affection and a great ease with people.

"But there's no one here anymore. It's time to leave.

"Only ghosts remain here: Ghosts and shadows that don't belong to you."

"But what can I do?" Clara asked tearfully.

"Go to Caracas!" dona Mercedes exclaimed. "Go and live with Luisito!"

"Really, dona Mercedes!" Clara retorted indignantly. "How can you suggest such a thing. It's downright indecent."

Dona Mercedes replied, "You sound like your aunts." and she regarded Clara cheerfully; then flung her head back and laughed. "Don't be an ass, Clara.

"What's indecent is to pretend to be prudish. Have you forgotten what you and Luisito have been doing since you were twelve years old?"

Clara remained silent, seemingly lost in thought. "I can't be rushed into a decision." She smiled, tracing the cement cracks on the ground with her toes. "I can't just leave all this."

"You can if you have guts," dona Mercedes said. "The musiua here is also leaving today. We will take you to Luisito."

"And what about Emilia?" Clara asked.

Dona Mercedes replied, "Emilia will be happy with your aunts.

"Your aunts have been wanting to come back to El Rincón for a long time. This place holds all their memories; all their feelings.

"Here, the three women can set back the clock to an ideal time that never was. The shadows of the past will dim the present, and erase their frustrations."

Dona Mercedes was silent for an instant, then she took Clara's hands in hers, perhaps to communicate the urgency of her words. "Put on your yellow dress. Yellow suits you. It'll give you strength.

"Change quickly. You need nothing else.

"When you came to El Rincón you had only one dress; you should leave the same way."

Seeing Clara's hesitation, Dona Mercedes pressed her point. "This is your last chance, girl.

"I've already told the musiua that the only way for you to keep well is to love Luisito with abandon and completeness, as you did when you were a child."

Clara's large eyes, bright with tears, closed in a hurt blink. "But I love him," she murmured. "You know that I have never loved anyone but him."

Dona Mercedes regarded her thoughtfully. "True," she admitted and, turning toward me, added, "She had dozens of rich suitors.

"She still does, and she still gets a malicious pleasure disappointing them. She's escaped from more sure engagements than I care to remember."

Clara's laughter rang out loud. She put her arm around dona Mercedes' shoulders and brushed her lips across her cheek.

"You always exaggerate everything," she said, her tone betraying how delighted she was. "But in spite of all my admirers, I never loved anyone but Luisito."

Dona Mercedes took her arm and guided her toward her room. "You have to love Luisito in the world the way you love him within the crumbling walls of El Rincón."

She pushed Clara inside, and said, "Go on and put on your yellow dress. We'll be waiting for you in the jeep."

Clara's description of Luisito had not prepared me for the astonishingly handsome man who greeted us at his apartment door in Caracas.

I knew that he was in his late twenties, but he looked like a teenager with black curly hair, green-yellow eyes, and smooth white skin.

When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.

In spite of his pronounced limp, there was nothing awkward about his movements.

His engaging personality and his self-sufficient manner did not allow for pity.

Luisito was not in the least surprised to see us; and when he served us a sumptuous meal, I knew that dona Mercedes had arranged things beforehand.

We stayed until late: It was an unforgettable night.

I had never seen dona Mercedes in such an expansive mood.

Her flawless mimicry of the people we all knew in Curmina, her knack for recalling the most absurd situations, her talent for dramatizing them, and her shameless exaggerations turned her anecdotes into memorable tales.

It was shortly before midnight when, declining Luisito's invitation to stay for the night, Mercedes Peralta rose and embraced both Clara and Luisito at the same time.

Then, with her arms wide open, she approached me with an exuberant gesture of affection.

I said, "Don't embrace me like that. You're not saying good-bye to me, too. I'm going back with you."

I laughed and returned her embrace.

I reached for the ignition. Wrapped around my keys was a chain.

With trembling fingers I untangled it. It was a long gold chain with a huge medal hanging from it.

"You better wear it," dona Mercedes said, looking at me. "It's Saint Christopher, the remarkable patron saint of travelers."

A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she settled back in her seat. "You'll be well protected. After all, you're a traveler who has stopped only for a moment."

Instead of heading for Curmina, dona Mercedes directed me along specific streets; clear across town.

I had the feeling we had been driving in circles, when she finally made me stop in front of an old, green colonial house.

"Who lives here?" I asked.

"My ancestors lived here," she replied. "It's their house. And I am just a leaf of an enormous tree."

She looked at me so intently she seemed to be imprinting my face in the depths of her eyes.

Leaning closer, she whispered in my ear. "A witch has to have luck and strength to move the wheel of chance.

"Strength can be groomed, but luck cannot be beckoned: It cannot be enticed. Luck, independent of witchcraft or human arrangements, makes its own choice."

She ran her fingers through my hair and over my face, feeling rather than seeing me, then added, "That's why witches are so attracted to it."

I was filled with an odd premonition.

I looked at her questioningly, but she reached for her basket and pulled out a reddish brown leaf shaped like a butterfly.

"Look at it carefully," she said, handing me the leaf. "The spirits of my ancestors told me to always carry a dry leaf.

"I am this leaf, and I want you to throw it through that window."

She pointed to the house in front of us. "As you throw it, recite an incantation. I want to know how powerful your incantations are."

Willing to humor her, I examined the leaf from every angle, turning it over and over. I surveyed its surface and searched its depths.

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Throw it through the window," she repeated.

I climbed up the wrought-iron grill, pushed the heavy curtain aside, and threw the leaf inside as an incantation flowed out of me.

Instead of falling to the ground, the leaf fluttered upward toward the corner by the ceiling like a moth.

Alarmed, I jumped down.

Mercedes Peralta was no longer in the jeep. Certain that she had gone into the house, I knocked softly on the door.

It was open. "Dona Mercedes," I whispered and stepped inside.

The house, built around a patio and shadowy corridors, was like a silent dark cloister.

Long rain gutters dropped from the dark roof, and metal rings dangled from the ancient protruding eaves.

I walked to the center of the patio, toward a weeping willow shrouded in mist.

Like phantom beads, the tiny silvery dew-drops on its leaves slid soundlessly into the fountain beneath.

A gust of air shook the willow tree, scattering fresh dry leaves all around me.

Gripped by an irrational fear, I ran out into the street.

I sat in my jeep determined to wait for Mercedes Peralta. I reached under my seat for a box of tissue paper and felt my camera and tape recorder.

Puzzled, I turned around: I had no recollection of packing anything but my clothes.

To my utter astonishment, I discovered a box on the backseat. It contained my tapes and my diaries.

Stuck to the box was an unsigned note.

I recognized Candelaria's bold handwriting.

It read, "A witch's farewell is like dust from the road; it sinks in as one tries to slough it off."