Page 44 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
Along the shore, a small white cat sits on a rock, sunning itself lazily. It doesn’t look up as you gather the luggage, but you smile to see it all the same. Cats are good luck, and this one is cute.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Mami hasn’t seen the cat. She’s already trudging up the path, carrying her luggage: clothes, farm tools, a few kitchen things. A creased envelope containing Baba’s last letter. There’s more luggage on the pier; it’ll require multiple trips.
Take another deep breath to compose yourself. And follow after her, burdened with additional bags.
The cat watches you go, tail lashing.
The village is sunk into the forest. Old-fashioned houses nestle sporadically in the hills, softly wrapped in mangroves and giant taro. Strangler figs engulf sweet gum trees. Banyans force their tough roots through hard rock. Creepers wind around the red-tiled roofs, framing the Chinese characters painted onto archways.
Yet despite those classic flourishes, some of the architecture is unexpectedly Western in shape and structure: squat, squarish buildings, corners shored up with stones. There is even a chapel, with a wooden crucifix nailed above the entrance. Catholic influence makes an uneasy marriage with Hakka heritage.
Every building is pristine—and completely empty. As if the owners have gone out for a walk, but will return at any moment. You are a little disappointed to see no sign of the ghosts, but perhaps they are hiding. It is still bright daylight, after all.
The house that your maternal grandmother once owned is much the same as the others. It was built on high ground, with a good view of the sea. Wooden walls are slathered in white paint. A low, peaked roof sits on it like a stony hat, the edges curling up like an old-timey pagoda.
Step up to the porch. A half-rotted fu talisman hangs on the front door, faded and unreadable from sun exposure. You wonder if it still bears any protective power. If it doesn’t, you’ll have to rewrite it, to keep out all the ghosts. It’s not a good idea to let them into the house regularly.
The floor creaks in a friendly fashion as you step inside, like a grumpy old uncle complaining about his joints. There’s a sense of familiarity to everything,and as Mami leads you through a living room full of furniture, it feels like coming home.
The bedroom that will be yours is small, and the bed is at least thirty years old. Still, the frame holds your weight; strong, well-built wood. No mattress, in the traditional style. A pile of neatly folded linens sits in one corner. They should be rotted, but the cloth is soft and clean when you touch them.
It’s eerie, how fresh everything is.
The only other furniture is a carved chest of drawers. The wood is dark with age, the grain of it worn and pitted. You run fingers across it, unable to resist exploring its texture. Scratches notch the corner; scuffs layer the flat surfaces.
Your gaze skips across the window above the dresser. It is completely open, no bamboo blinds and certainly no glass; the shutters lie flat against the wall, letting in the breeze. This side of the house has a view of both island and sea. Overgrown farmland stretches out to one side, graduating into lush mangroves, roots and branches densely knotted together. Just out of sight is the cliff edge, and a dirt road leading toward the beach.
Something else: a ghost stands in the middle of the field.
It is the first spirit you’ve seen since arriving. The form is indistinct, and it’s impossible to tell if it is man, woman, or child. It shimmers as if covered in water. The typhoon that wrecked this village also drowned a lot of people; maybe that is why the ghost looks damp.
Hard to know if the spirit sees you or not. Just in case, you give it a respectful wave. The ghost ripples, and disappears.
Now that it’s gone, you realize it was obstructing your view of a rusted sign, hanging by a single nail on a rough-cut signpost. On that strip of corroded metal, someone long ago has painted????, accompanied by a rough sketch of a pointed-roof building.
Flood Dragon People Shrine.
A shiver goes through you. Jiaoren.Flood dragon people, orshark people. The Westerners have something similar in their legends—mermaids, merfolk. Fewer teeth and claws than the Chinese variety, and Western ones do not weep pearls.
Strange, to have a jiaoren shrine. You’ve never heard of anything like that. Ghosts are everywhere, but jiaoren are only myths, a common story in island communities.
The sign points toward the mangrove trees, and something that looks like a very overgrown path is just about visible. Maybe you’ll go exploring and look for it later. That could be fun.
You begin unloading your clothes, filling the dresser with the handful of belongings which came to the island. As you open the chest’s top drawer, you note that inside, someone has scratched Chinese characters. These look like a blessing, or protective wish.
There is also an old photo, water-stained and faded with age. It appears to be of a small family, standing proud in front of several salt pans. An older lady, like a grandmother, and two young children.
Of the two children, the taller one is recognizable as Mami, when she was a little girl. The same uplifted chin and delicate nose, the same set to her shoulders. It’s strange to see a picture of your mother as a child; she actually looks happy.
The other little girl is a mystery. She must be Mami’s sister, and the realization fills you with intense curiosity.
Obviously, you know that Mami wasn’t an only child. The rest of her family all died in the island storm. But your mother has never talked about them, and claims she barely remembers them. In fairness, she was only a child herself when the typhoon struck, so maybe she’s telling the truth.
Peer closer. The little girl’s face is impossible to pick out, but not because of water damage. There’s a burned hole, going right through the photograph. Like someone has pressed a joss stick or a cigarette end, searing off the child’s face forever.
The door creaks open; you jump.
“Siu Yin?” Mami pokes her head in. “What is the bed like in this room? Mine is usable.”
