Page 90 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
“Hello,” you say calmly. “Who are you?”
“Chiu Wing Yun.” He looks to be in his late twenties, suntanned and square-shouldered. A shock of dark hair falls across his face. As a living girl, you’d have found him strikingly handsome. “I’m part of the East River Column.”
“Thewhat?”
“Haven’t you heard of us, Lady Ghost?” He gives you a shrewd, thoughtful look. “The Sai Kung resistance network. We are Hakka people who fight against Japanese occupation. Those men you killed had captured me.”
“I see.” A pause. “My mother was Hakka. I speak a little, if that helps.”
“If you wish, but my Cantonese is good,” he says needlessly, because that is obvious. “Forgive me, but who the hell are you? Why did you help me?”
“I am what you called me: a lady ghost.” You begin slicing his bonds with the sergeant’s knife. “One who can wear skins. And who has no love for the Japanese invaders. It is partly their fault that I am this way.”
The questions are clearly hovering in his mouth, so you decide to preempt them.
“I fled with my mother to the outlying islands, just off this coast, to avoid the invasion,” you tell him. “The occupiers have caused so much pain and strife, and we feared them.”
Even as you speak, it occurs to you that you’re so much more lucid and chatty than Mei Chi was. Is this the influence of being in a physical body, or a result of dying as an adult? Hard to say.
“It is right to fear them,” Wing Yun says, interrupting your thoughts. “Occupation has been cruel in our city.”
“Fleeing didn’t help, did it? I’ve died a bitter death anyway.” Your teeth are grinding, you realize; look away from him and try to gather yourself.
“What were those questions you asked the soldiers?” he says.
“I’m looking for two people. A young woman, and an older one, traveling separately. They fled south and may have been picked up by boats.”
Wing Yun’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Forgive me, Lady Ghost, but there are tens of thousands of displaced people in Hong Kong right now. Millions across China. Refugees are everywhere. If your friend—”
“Not my friend,” you snap. And then, to avoid the questions in his eyes, you add reluctantly, “My mother and my aunt.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost them,” he says, and bows his head briefly. “But I don’tthink you’ll find them easily. Not with this war going on. Citizens cannot move freely. Resistance fighters struggle to evade notice. Until the invasion is done and the Japanese are gone, you might as well be looking for a leaf in a typhoon.”
For a moment, searing rage grips you. Who is this mortal man, thwarting what you want? Doesn’t he know who you are? Your hands twitch, mouth twisting in a snarl.
No.No.You struggle for control, forcing down the unhelpful urge to lash out. Wing Yun is right, and it is not his fault that he is right. Take a steadying breath, and look at this cocky, handsome young soldier. Your tormented reaction hasn’t escaped his notice, and he watches you with narrowed eyes.
“If I cannot find those I seek until after the invaders are gone, then I must do my part to remove the invaders,” you say, with a cool reserve you don’t feel. “Tell me, Mr. Chiu. How would your East River Column feel about welcoming a ghost into its ranks?”
Wing Yun sits back on his heels, and begins to laugh. “A ghost as a resistance fighter? Whoever heard of such a thing!” But he sounds amazed rather than contemptuous.
“Why not?” Move to crouch in front of him. “I can kill. You’ve seen that. I can wear skins, and infiltrate places with ease. I can lure unwary men, and survive terrible wounds. Your people need me, and I need this war finished. What do you say?”
“I think,” he says, after a long, thoughtful moment, “that it will be a tough sell, to convince my superiors.” He gives you a conspiratorial wink. “But you know what? I’m willing to argue the case. I believe we can talk them round.” His grin is dazzling. “Do you have a name, Lady Ghost?”
A moment’s hesitation. Then, “Sung Siu Yin. But please keep that to yourself, I don’t wish my name to be widely known.”
“No problem. I understand.” He sticks out a hand. “Welcome to the resistance, Miss Sung.”
28A HUNDRED THOUSAND SOULS
Thirty years ago…
The date is August 6, 1945. The time is 04:30 hours.
A Japanese boat rocks on choppy water. No moon, the sky wreathed in clouds. Men make their rounds on the decks.
Goro makes his last loop of the night and pauses to lean against the railing. He fans himself, sweats, takes his cap off, and puts it on again. Sometimes it feels like August is the only month Hong Kong ever exists in: rainy, on the cusp between summer and fall, perpetually warm and sticky.
