Page 48 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
“With my help,” Mami said, then relented a little. “It’s fine for a first try.”
Unexpectedly, she stood and stretched, cracking the joints of her hands and shoulders. “We should go for a walk before it gets dark, have something to eat,” she said, which shocked you. She often went walking on her own, but she never brought you along. “Get your shoes on, daughter.”
Intrigued by her invitation-slash-command, you did as she bade and followed, feeling uncertain yet curious.
Cities, streets, and neighborhoods all have their own smell. Your street in Hong Kong was no different. Take a sniff, inhale that dizzying mix of dried seafood wares and raw fish, of salt water and ferryboat fumes, of smoked meats and soggy laundry. Summer heat wrung the sweat out of everyone even as the night rolled in.
Down by the docks, Mami bought skewers of spicy fish balls from a dai pai dong, which she shared with you. She had changed from her hospital uniform into a simple cotton qipao; that was a fashion trend she had adopted during her time in Shanghai. You had so far managed to squash the insatiable urge to talk nonstop in her presence, and your ability to accommodate her need for quietudeseemed to soften her demeanor. She talked some about her day, the conversation polite and gentle.
It was a pleasant evening.
After that first venture, it became something of a ritual. Friday evenings, practice those glyphs and fu talismans until your hands hurt. Then tidy up, stretch, put on shoes, change into casual clothes, and walk down to the docks amidst the markets. Conversation was often awkward, but you both tried. It was a chance to eat snacks, if nothing else.
Looking back in later years, you were never entirely sure what Mami sought from you then, or you from her. Family piety is strong in Chinese people, an overpowering drive to make it work between members, and maybe it was simple as that. Beneath all the things that made her broken, some part of her was still trying hard, in a twisted fashion.
Sometimes, Mami would even tell stories. Some you knew from neighbors or friends, and others were unfamiliar. She liked ghost stories, and told those the most.
“Long ago, there was once a little girl, born to an island village,” she said one evening, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her feet, hair tied back severely. “This girl was unique. She was a wild thing who could summon storms and talk to ghosts. They listened to her, instead of ignoring her, and they refused to harm her. Some said she was an incarnation of Ma Zu, the ocean goddess. Others said she was cursed.”
You listened attentively. There were many folktales of all kinds, but Mami was telling one you’d never heard of before.
“In another life, this girl might have become a powerful medium, but there was no one to teach her how to use her abilities safely. Even as a toddler, she would anger local ghosts by crying at them, which in turn caused harm. The villagers soon learned to be cautious around her, and to take care with wards.
“One day, while the girl’s father was traveling to the mainland for business, his ship was lost at sea, due to a storm. The girl’s mother, on hearing this news, was filled with grief and could not be comforted. She took her own life, soon after. Only the grandmother was left, to raise the little girl by herself.
“All of this terrible luck sparked cruel rumors. The villagers came to believe that the little girl was surrounded with bad fortune. They feared her tantrums and tears, which they said summoned storms. They claimed she spoke evil words to ghosts, and could command them to curse mortals. They shunned the girl and told the grandmother to do the same, but the grandmother refused.
“Now, this girl happened to own a little cat. She was very attached to it, asshe had no friends among the other children, so it was her only companion. One morning, the girl awoke to discover that her cat was nowhere to be found. She looked all over the island, and eventually discovered it dead, on the beach. Someone had crushed its head with a rock.
“The girl grew angry, and accused the other villagers of killing her cat. When no one would confess, she shouted curses at them, and threatened to raise the cat’s ghost in revenge. She was not truly a necromancer, but she was upset, and the villagers were afraid anyway.
“That night, several men came to the grandmother’s house and demanded that she and the girl leave the island forever. Some claimed that the girl’s curse was already taking effect, that their chickens and crops were dying. Others said they had been unable to catch fish all day. The grandmother argued with them, but it did not help.
“These village men chased the girl and her grandmother out of the house, driving them toward the shore. However, while running away in the dark, the girl and her grandmother fell to their deaths from a tall cliff by the sea. The fall killed the grandmother instantly, but the girl survived—although she was terribly injured. Her back was broken and she could not move or walk.
“The girl cried for help, yet no one would help her. The men who had chased her would not let the others intervene, as they felt that implied their guilt. Eventually, the tide came in, and the girl drowned, because she could not walk. No one buried her, so her spirit could not rest. Soon, she returned as an angry, powerful ghost.
“Death only made the girl more powerful. As a raging ghost, she summoned a storm and washed away the whole island, in punishment for her death. That was the last anyone saw of the island, or the ghost girl. The end.”
When it became clear Mami was done speaking, you said, “But the story can’t be finished.”
“Says who?” She tore a chunk off today’s snack: a soft white bun filled with sweetly roasted pork. “I think it is finished.”
“What happened to the ghost? Is she just a ghost forever, now? Shouldn’t someone come to fight her?”
“Aiyah, what are you talking about?” Mami said, sharply. “You are thinking like a Westerner, like one of the white nuns at your school. To them, ghosts are just a pest, a villain, a monster to kill. British people—like those gweilo soldiers over there, do you see them?—they do not love their ghosts, as they do not love their ancestors. When their dead return, they are banished. Whentheir souls cling, they are forced onward. They even ward their own graveyards! Barbarians.”
“She drowned a village, in the end,” you said, interrupting her rant. “Doesn’t that make her evil, Mami?”
“No, it only makes her a ghost. Ghosts are driven by hurt, and cannot help themselves. Do you think a storm is evil, because it pours rain on your head?”
“No, but… not everyone in the village was responsible for her death. It’s not fair that theyalldied.”
“Isn’t it? They didn’t all kill her, but they all left her unburied. That was stupid.”
“But why should the other villagers have to bury her, if they didn’t kill her?” you say, puzzled. “Why is someone else’s crime their fault?”
“Again, you think like a Westerner! If each person only corrects the crimes that they have committed themselves, then the world will be full of pain, because evil men do not care about injustice, and so never correct their own.”
