Chapter 29 The Long Night
THE LONG NIGHT
Thirty years ago …
Nuclear devastation ends the war, eventually. The Japanese resist for a while, although that collapses shortly after the second bomb.
But even as the opposition folds, even as hope grows in the hearts of the resistance fighters, your own hopes are fading. While it’s a venerable occupation to possess the bodies of enemy soldiers during times of war, that kind of ability makes people uneasy in times of peace.
When the Japanese capitulate, the British will take over.
And they are none too keen on the “ghost regiments” of Sai Kung, however useful they found you during these past three years.
Even Wing Yun’s recommendation isn’t going to help.
The messages coming from the remnants of Hong Kong’s government have made that clear as day.
The developments frustrate you. All this work you did was driven by the desire to find Mei Chi and your mother, but the return of peace doesn’t seem to be making that any easier.
Still, you can’t do anything if you’re caught by exorcists. Angry and bitter, you take off in the night, the day after the second atomic bomb falls. And you go to hide in the forest, intending to lay low until you can see which way the political winds are blowing.
You are therefore rather surprised when Wing Yun comes to find you one morning, in early September.
The resistance fighters have mostly disbanded by now, and all gone home. But you have remained, lingering in your military tent and stolen body like a bad smell, continuing to squat in the tree-riddled hills of the New Territories. Away from the rest of humanity.
The resistance camp held a few Japanese POWs, before the war ended, but it doesn’t anymore.
You brought them along when you left, and have been “going through” them like disposable gowns.
They were up for execution anyway, not that this makes it any more ethical.
But ethics have stopped mattering to you as much as they once did.
“Siu Yin? Is that you?” Wing Yun kneels outside the battered tent, peering in. His nose wrinkles at the stench of your stolen, unwashed flesh. “So, it’s true. You are still out here, lurking around.”
“Where else would I go?” You sit cross-legged beneath the grimy tent, shirt worn to rags, flesh emaciated from days of not eating. The only bathing you’ve done is whatever the rain chooses to bestow.
It isn’t comfortable squatting in the woods, and there are few facilities. Even less food. Fortunately, you don’t care about comfort, or taking care of your body. It’s only a dead enemy, and their corpse doesn’t require your respect. Let it starve, let it be dirty.
“Fair answer.” He crouches outside the tent, fingers interlaced. “How long have you been in that body?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I thought you told me once that staying in the same vessel for too many days is bad.”
“My memories start to fade, if I inhabit a skin too long, and I forget myself.” You don’t admit that some memories are already slipping from you, like soup through a sieve. “But I wouldn’t call that bad.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Everyone likes to forget, sometimes. Living people drink beer; I stay in my skins an extra day.”
“Beer doesn’t erase an entire person,” he counters.
“Doesn’t it? I think it does for some. Besides, the memories come back when I shed the skin.” You’ve done it twice before, by accident: stayed too long, started to lose yourself, then fortunately gotten “killed” in action. The death brought it all back. Since then, you’ve been more careful.
Well, usually.
You add, “I won’t stay much longer. Since you seem worried. This body is on the verge of fatal dehydration, and that will clear my head.”
“Shouldn’t you be near water, if you’re about to leave this body behind?”
“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.
But regardless, 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.”
“I can work with this,” he says, recovering his composure with admirable speed. “Are there any relatives you can think of who they might seek out in Hong Kong?”
You’re about to reply when the snapping of twigs catches your mutual attention.
“Friends of yours?” you ask, with sudden wariness.
“Shit. I think I’ve been followed here!” Wing Yun catches your arm, pulling you to standing. “Siu Yin, you need to run. Now!”
“What?” You let him pull you up; this body is very weak, after all. “Who is it?”
“Government exorcists. I thought I lost them in the woods, but clearly not.” He gives you a shove. “Go! If they catch you, I’ll do my best to free you.”
“Promise,” you say, struck by a sudden pang of fear. “Promise you won’t forget me.”
He looks at you, unblinking, and nods. “I promise. Now get out of here!”
With a hiss, you whirl away and begin to run through the woods.
Any other day, and you’d have destroyed them. Any other body, and you could have outrun them.
Just your bad luck—and bad planning, if you’re honest—that today this form is tired and weak, distracted from having worn this skin too long. Severe dehydration and lack of food means there is only so far you can push shaking legs.
The noise of footfalls is growing louder in the surrounding forest, and you can hear men calling to each other in a mix of English and Cantonese.
What will they even do to you, these exorcists? No, doesn’t matter. Don’t think of it. There will be time later to process their betrayal (again! More betrayal!) and your own need for revenge.