Page 57 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
Surprisingly, she comes with you, sobbing loudly as she flees.
All the way through the village, past every building, ghosts come out as the pair of you sprint past, shouting questions and garbled pleas. Mami tries to apologize in Hakka, even pausing to reach back with arms extended.
“Mami, no!” You grab her around her waist, since taking her arm is apparently not sufficient, and yank her very hard.
Once you get going, she stumbles into a run yet again. Dazed yet compliant, at least for now.
Eventually, you get back to the house. Slam the door shut and start whispering prayers to the Christian God, to your ancestral gods, anyone who will listen, frankly. Feel grateful for the fu talismans plastered over every entrance, keeping out those grasping and waterlogged hands.
“What,” you say, still panting and shaking a little, “the hell was that?”
“I’m sorry,” Mami mutters, forehead resting against the door. “I did not think it would be like this. The ghosts are remembering the night we drowned, acting it out in detail. The storm must have set them off. They should… they should calm down soon.”
“Maybe we should leave Shek Ham Chau,” you say, after a long, extended silence. “It doesn’t seem very safe, and, well…”
And Mami seems extremely unhappy. But you don’t say that part out loud, since she won’t appreciate it, at all.
“What’s the point? Where would we go?” she says, tiredly.
“Another island. Any other island. There must be space on Yim Tin Tsai, or Sharp Island. Anywhere.”
She is silent, genuinely considering it. Eventually, she straightens up and smooths down her hair. The rain has made it frizzy and unkempt.
“Let me have a sleep on it,” she says, at last. “It’s not so easy to simply go somewhere else. We don’t know where the Japanese are, or what they’re doing. We don’t know whether another village will take us in.”
“I guess.” It occurs to you that moving to a different island will make it hardfor Baba to find you both, if he does arrive, but Mami doesn’t seem to have thought of that.
“Let’s eat something, and refresh ourselves,” she says, after several more beats of silence. “We have a lot of work to do in the garden tomorrow. Can you sleep tonight?”
“I think so? I might make a few more fu talismans before bed, though.”
“Yes, that’s sensible,” she says, already walking to the kitchen to start cooking. She pauses in the archway and says, “I’m sorry for dragging you into the village. I should not have done that.”
“It’s fine,” you say, but she is already turning away, taking out a wok and some of the stored food.
Sighing, you go to get some paper, brushes, and blessed ink.
Mami does not sleep that night, however.
Instead, she waits patiently for dinner to end. For you to write and hang your fu talismans, and go to bed. Then, when she is sure that you are deeply asleep, she throws on a light shawl and heads out.
Darkness lies thick across Shek Ham Chau, the moon hidden by clouds. She picks a stumbling path across the night-chilled earth, toward the beach. She feels naked out here, aware of the ghosts who lurk, the taut gleam of their spirit selves grown more dangerous, and yet paradoxically unafraid. The frenetic fury of their re-enactment has passed, and they are placid once again.
Ingrained memory leads her to the right place. Carefully, she kneels in the sand, the sea crashing in front of her.
Mami cups her hands over her mouth and calls out, “Are you out there, goddess?”
From a distance, the little white cat watches her from the depths of tall, waving grass. She does not see it, and it does not reveal itself to her.
Nor do I reveal myself, for the time is not yet right.
Instead, a particularly large wave hits the shore, accompanied by a powerful gust of wind. The force is strong enough to knock her down, the accompanying spray soaks her through. Mami falls with a gasp, damp and outraged.
As a little girl, years ago, she would have found it funny to be sprayed by a wave. But she has not been a little girl in such a long, long time.
Mami stands up, fuming, and throws a rock into the ocean. What she hopes that will accomplish, I cannot imagine.
Hair dripping, breath steaming, she calls out, “Why didn’t you stop any of it? Were my prayers not enough? Whenever I pray to you, disaster strikes!”
