Page 95 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
“I can look after myself,” you tell him. “Why are you here? Isn’t there a victory to celebrate, or something?”
“I am more of a fighter than a partier.” Wing Yun scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I miss our chats. Ghost or not, you’ve been a good friend and fought well, and earned us many victories. I respected you. Still do.”
“Futile, what we did,” you tell him, shortly. “We could have just sat in the trees and waited for that bomb to drop.”
“Not futile,” he says, with quiet conviction. “It is never futile to fight for freedom. What we did mattered.”
No idea what to say to that. Wing Yun is an idealist, which you both admire and dislike in him simultaneously. It’s not a worldview you can even begin to parse.
When he gets no response, Wing Yun sighs and says, “I came to warn you, one friend to another. The British are in control again. We all know how the Westerners feel about stray ghosts roaming the place.”
“No surprise! Why do you think I left? I could see how that was going to go.”
“Smart choice.” He grimaces. “They’ve already rounded up the other ghosts who were in my division.”
“And you just let them, did you?”
“They came in the night and gave us no choice.”
“How I hate them,” you say, with real bitterness. “Years of my existence given to service of this country, and for what? They want to exorcise me—put me in a bottle gourd!”
“It is unfair,” he agrees, quietly. “I will fight for our warrior spirits’ rights however I can. But in the meantime, you must stay safe.”
His concern brings a lump to your human throat, and you are forced to look away. If only you weren’t a ghost and had your own skin. If only you weren’t dead and could pursue this man, have a courtship, have a life. Grow up, as you were meant to do.
Desperate to change the subject, you say quickly, “How do the European exorcists compare to the Japanese and their Supernatural Forces Division?”
“Far worse.” If he’s noticed your moment of emotion, he doesn’t comment. “The Japanese respect their own ghosts, at least. It was only enemy spirits they feared. The Westerners, though, would rather see no ghosts at all, and they mostly revile spirits, unless they get classed as Catholic saints. For some reason, their saints get a pass.”
“I see. Are you advising me to… what, hide? Return to the ocean, lurk there drowning forever?”
He spreads his hands. “Have you ever listened to my advice? I am giving you warning, that’s all. They’re already doing sweeps through the city, cleaning out spirits. Good, bad, friendly, unhelpful. I just thought you should know.”
You want to ask him what he thinks you’re supposed to do. Sit in the sea, rotting away and murdering random victims? Or perhaps take a body, forget yourself, go among the living? Likely enough, that’s what happened to Mei Chi.
Fucking Mei Chi. She’s probably a thousand miles away by now, if not dead herself. The anguish of that injustice, that unsolved rage, eats at you daily. Butregardless, Wing Yun has no answers for the questions in your head. He’s already standing, shaking mud and grass off his trousers, getting ready to leave.
“Will you help me?” you say, on impulse. Needing to know, before he disappears. “The women I’m looking for, who we’ve talked about. I can’t search them out easily or safely. But now that the war is ended…” A hesitant pause.
“I can move around freely?” He finishes your statement, not missing a beat. “Siu Yin, I thought you’d never ask! Of course, I will look for them. I have my own relatives to search for, too.”
You could hug him just then, if you weren’t so exhausted and dirty. “Thank you, my kind friend. I appreciate that.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he says. “What can you tell me about them? Names, descriptions—”
“No need.” You stand up and press your forehead to his, as Mei Chi did to you once, three years ago.
Memories and experiences flood from your mind to his. Not the full thing, because you don’t want to share every moment of hurt with him, but enough: glimpses of your face, Mami’s face, the island, snippets of Hong Kong.
It’s intuitive, this action. You know how to do it in the same way that you know how to swim. Ghosts long to share their stories, after all. When it’s done, he rocks back on his heels, blinking hard and a little stunned.
“Was that… your life?” he says, amazed.
“Part of it.”
“And the two women—”
“The older one is my mother, Daiyu. The younger one is my aunt, Chen Mei Chi. You know their faces, now, and their names.”
