I have memories of old João Cravador, a goatherd by profession and a witch in his spare time. His screams, which were heard in my house and which my grandfather would say – There's Cravador calling the Devil – were a source of terror to me.

Poverty and ignorance, close friends of superstition, led people, for lack of anything better, to seek help from dark forces. There are always those who take advantage. I don't know how João Cravador got into the arts of witchcraft, but, as they say today, even in his ignorance, he had the cleverness to explore this market niche.

Thus, in exchange for some goods, normally food, since money was scarce, he sold dreams to those who came from far away to consult him.

From my house, which was next to his, we could see people going there, some on foot, others on donkeys, carrying baskets with products to pay for the secrets that my neighbour would reveal to them.

For me, at four or five years old, accustomed to the stories of wizards and ghosts that my mother liked to tell, João Cravador's screams, while terrifying me, aroused my curiosity.

One day, my mother, who needed to sew some clothes on the machine of the wizard's daughter-in-law, Aunt Candeias, and possibly catch up on the conversation, dragged me with her. I confess that I went a little scared, but I had no choice.


The house where the family lived was poor, like all the others in the area. It was made of thick stone and clay walls whitewashed, with no windows and a small wicket door. The roofs were made of sticks and reeds and were covered with tiles made in the brickworks of Santa Catarina. The floor, made of clay tiles, was worn and cracked from use.

That day, by chance, the witch doctor had clients, so I watched one of his witchcraft sessions live. At first, I huddled next to my mother, but then, curiosity led me to the scene of the action.

It was a torrid Algarve summer afternoon, with plenty of light streaming in through the narrow door, keeping most of the house in darkness. At the back of the room, the wizard, with a solemn look, placed his objects of worship: a pair of rusty scissors, a rosary of worn beads and a comb that must have been the only one in the house.

The customers, men and women, seafarers from Fuseta or Cavacos, with sun-tanned faces and a serious look, sat on the floor around João Cravador, who began work. He took off the heavy, carded boot on his left foot, revealing a sock that was waiting for winter to be washed. Then, on the shaft of the half-open scissors, he placed the comb in an unstable balance, ready to swing with the slightest breeze. He sang a song that no one understood and, limping on his bare foot, went to the door, where, crossing one hand over the other, he let out the same cry that could be heard in my house, calling the Devil – Come here! Come here! Then, looking at the floor, step by step, he went to his place, muttering – Today is hard, he doesn’t want to come. Finally, after several insistences, the Devil showed up, causing an even deeper silence and forcing my mother to stop the machine.


Then began the questioning session, which I honestly don't remember, and which the wizard transmitted to the Devil by bringing his mouth close to the comb placed on the scissors, causing it to shake. The answers interpreted by the movement of the comb were the result of his vast experience in dealing with simple, believing people who came to him, always with the same problems, in the hope that the solution would come from beyond, in this case from the Devil, since, certainly, neither the questions nor the answers were fit for God's ears.

I confess that from that afternoon onwards, I stopped being afraid of the wizard João Cravador and, many times, I played using the same instruments, imitating his screams and gestures for an imaginary audience.

Today, when I look back on my past, I feel like visiting this place and remembering the people I knew, but in this case, I can't even do that. The so-called Via do Infante passed through the site, destroying everything and left no trace of the house or the people who lived and died there. Quite simply, everything was obliterated. I doubt that even the Devil, who has walked there so many times, would be able to find the place.