I was a child sleepwalker, as much an object of village suspicion and distrust as a black cat with intense yellow eyes or a woman picking herbs by moonlight. Mother called on her favourite saints for help. Masses were said, candles lit, and a piglet raffled off for the church’s roof appeal. Then she appealed directly to Don Manuel, our grey-haired village priest. He recommended light dinners, special prayers, and rare scapulars for me to wear at night around my neck. Grandma was next. On the advice of both Elvira, who was good with herb remedies, and the sacristan’s dark-eyed,…