Chapter 14 In Another Life, Maybe #2
But it also doesn’t look remotely abandoned, which is odd. After years of neglect, you were expecting collapsing roofs, rotting planks, green life creeping through everything, lots of mold and rot. Yet the village is nearly pristine, as if preserved in time.
“Mami,” you say, catching her sleeve, “I thought you said the island was empty?”
She doesn’t look at you. “It is.”
“But the houses are so tidy. Everything looks new.”
The fisherman steering the boat hisses through his teeth.
“The ghosts look after the houses.”
“Oh.” Another thought strikes you: “Wasn’t the village destroyed in the storm?”
“I’m told the ghosts rebuilt it.” Mami bites a fingernail. “They are … industrious.”
Behind you, the fisherman spits in the water. “Ghosts shouldn’t linger so long,” he mutters, and Mami pretends not to have heard.
That’s nice of the ghosts to do such work, you decide, and wonder why everyone finds the idea so upsetting. If you were a ghost, you’d look after your old house, too.
The boat crunches up to the nearest pier. As you finally step ashore to the perfectly empty dock, luggage in hand, Mami says, feebly, “Well. What do you think?”
Behind you, the driver is revving the engine and heading back to the mainland. He does everything in a hurry, and doesn’t look back. Afraid of the bad luck that lingers, of the ghosts who still live here.
“It’s amazing!” Astonishment and awe paint your features. “I love it!”
“You do?” A look of surprise flashes across Mami’s face. “Well, that is very good. I hope you will not be bored.”
The idea of being bored leaves you dumbfounded. This is the first time you’ve been anywhere more than a few miles away from home. There were a few trips out when you were younger, to Lantau Island or once to Lamma Island, nothing exciting.
Other than that, you spent most days working at a local street restaurant.
Weekends involved trailing after your perpetually exhausted mother as she combed the wet markets and dry seafood stalls for cheap foodstuffs.
Drifting past incense-filled temples, which your parents never visited.
Listening to war news on the radio for the final hours of every day.
Dreading the air raid sirens, afraid of tomorrow’s dire headlines.
“I won’t be bored. I’ll be fine.” You’d have said so anyway, because self-sufficiency is the one thing she’s really needed from you these past few days. But in this case, you do mean it.
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 鮫人洞穴, accompanied by a rough sketch of a pointed-roof building.
Flood Dragon People Shrine.
A shiver goes through you. Jiaoren. Flood dragon people, or shark 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.”
“Great, just fine,” you say, dropping the photo back into the drawer and shutting it discreetly with your hip as you fidget uneasily. “The furniture is still sturdy, after all this time.” You can’t shake a lingering sense of embarrassment, as if she’s walked in while you were snooping.
“Good, that’s good. One less job to do.” Mami almost smiles, doesn’t quite make it. It’s as if any emotion sucks energy from her, these days. Then her half smile collapses as she says, irritably, “Siu Yin, be still. There is no need to jump around.”
You’re not jumping, just jigging one leg restlessly, but you don’t argue the point. Nothing sets her off as fast as hearing you talk back.
Instead, you opt to distract her by pointing at the sign outside. “Mami, what does this mean?”
“Ah,” she says, after a moment. “That points to the Shrine of Compassion.”
Understanding dawns. “The stone temple itself,” you say. “The one this place is named for.”
Mami nods. “On the south shore of this island, there is a cave. It is possible to swim into it during low tide, though it is treacherous to do so. In high tide, the entrance floods completely.” She crosses her arms, brow bent in an emotion you can’t place.
“Anyway, there is a very old temple, or perhaps more of a shrine, deep inside the cavern. Carved right into the rock.”
“It’s underground?” That surprises you. Temples are almost always built on higher altitudes, with their backs against mountains. Closer to heaven. “Who made it? Was it carved by the original Hakka settlers?”
She shrugs. “It is very ancient is all I know. The shrine was there before even my ancestors came to this place. Nobody knew what it was for, but it is dedicated to Kwun Yam, sort of. Some people here called her Ma Zu.”
“Huh? Aren’t they very different?” To the best of your haphazard knowledge, Ma Zu was a seafaring goddess of lowly human birth. Kwun Yam, meanwhile, was the very lofty goddess of compassion.
“My people believed Ma Zu was an incarnation of Kwun Yam. Not typical, but it’s what we were raised to think.
” She makes a vague gesture. “Anyway, it’s an ocean temple to the goddess, and it has carvings of jiaoren in it.
So we called that place the Jiaoren Cavern, and the building within it is simply the Shrine of Compassion. ”
“Oh. That sounds interesting. Maybe I could have a look? It can’t take very long to swim around this island.”
“I don’t think you should go swimming, not yet,” Mami says, drawing in her breath sharply. “The cave faces the sea, and is impossible to enter when the tides are high. Only strong swimmers should attempt it.”
“That seems like a bad location to build a temple, if it’s so dangerous,” you say, doubtfully. “Shouldn’t temples be easy to reach? And near the top of a mountain?” Everyone knows that temples should be close to heaven.
“It is easy to reach, if you are swimming and don’t need to breathe air. And it is atop a mountain, if you’ve come from the ocean depths,” Mami says, matter-of-factly. “We found the temple, daughter, but it wasn’t built for us. Humans are not the only ones who wish to worship gods.”
You wait for her to laugh, or turn the statement into a joke.
She simply looks at you, unsmiling.
“Oh,” you say, faintly.
Carved by jiaoren—for other jiaoren, or so your mother seems to be implying. But surely not. Those are just stories, silly old myths.
Aren’t they?
“We will eat supper in an hour, and tomorrow go look at the fields.” She is already turning to go. “Time to see if I can remember how to farm and fish, and if that old water well still works.”
“Yes, Mami,” you agree, and reluctantly get back to tidying the room.
Outside, near the rusted sign in that derelict field, ghosts begin gathering in glistening silence to peer through the window.