Chapter 40 The Peace of Heaven
THE PEACE OF HEAVEN
(Four days later)
Picture yourself, a woman of fifty-odd years, lying flat on a quiet beach.
Beneath the shade of a giant taro tree, your form lies still and quiet. Dark hair fans out on the sand, forming a splash of ink around your face. Gray streaks add touches of lightness. Bruises bloom across your skin, though they will fade in a few days.
Trees sway, mangroves twist, birds call in low voices to one another. Waves unfurl like rolls of silk and still, you do not stir.
In the distance, someone calls your name.
Your eyes open.
Halos of refracted sunlight send you blinking, turning your head. Heave a breath, feeling strangely relieved that you can, and unsure why that would be. It seems like a long time since you’ve breathed so easily.
It’s beautiful, here.
You just have no idea where “here” is, how you got to this place … or even who you are.
If one were to look closely at some of the distant foliage, they might catch a glimpse of what look like buildings, long overgrown by lush green life.
Lotus blossoms grow in clusters, out of season but still beautiful.
Nature has reclaimed humanity’s brief habitat, yet the shape of old things remains.
To the left, there is a small, makeshift shrine; it was built for me by you, almost a day ago, though you don’t remember that right now.
Crude joss sticks sit cold, alongside a pile of freshly harvested pearls.
You’re about to examine it when, out on the wind, a lonely sound echoes and reverberates.
A shiver runs through you, every hair on your body standing up.
It sounds like singing, but the voice—voices?
—blends two melodies at once. Rise slowly, brush yourself clean.
Unfamiliar clothes, but everything is unfamiliar.
Things niggle at the edge of your memory.
Whispers and thoughts, just below the surface.
Here is the truth: it is the morning of the fourth day since you retook your body, and that means your memory of being a ghost has faded fully. You’ve moved into a life that is new and old, at the same time, and you are not yet done adjusting.
It’s going to be a hell of a transition.
Later, I will come to you as a friend, as a deity committed to mercy and compassion. Later, I will sit with you as your memories struggle to return, because it is not straightforward when a water ghost is bound back into her own body, after so many years apart from it.
There are very few rules for that. We are all in uncharted waters.
When that is done, I will tell you the story of your own life, explaining about yourself and about Mei Chi. About the long history that tangles between you. I will tell you the things that she has told me. I will tell you thoughts I have kept in my heart, all these years.
And we will all hope you can forgive, becoming a disciple of compassion.
If you can, then the next time you die, you will no longer be a water ghost. Just another quiet spirit, going to her quiet rebirth. That is the outcome we all hope for.
If you can’t … Well. There is no path forward if you can’t; no rest for a spirit who remains angry. And you are so, so tired, in the depths of your being. So in need of spiritual sleep.
For now, though, I keep my distance from you and keep my stories to myself. I watch as you walk along the beach as if in a bewildered dream. Sand cushions every footfall, and the tide smooths over your tracks.
Something has washed up on the beach, and it catches your eye. Drift closer, bend and pick it up. To your surprise, it’s an old glass bottle. You can tell it is old, because it is worn very smooth by the tides, though it is still—miraculously—intact and whole.
I have kept it safe, all these years. Some barnacles have clustered on the side; they fall off as you pick it up.
Lift it to the sun. Inside the fuzzed glass, you can make out a very old photograph in black and white, of a young girl standing next to her mother.
Turn it over. Curved outward against the opposite side is a snippet of writing on a scrap of paper.
Something about staying friends forever.
Reading the words sparks something in you, though you’re not sure what, exactly.
Only that it seems familiar, and comforting.
An eerie cry sings out again, tugging strangely at your heart.
Cup your hands, hold them to your mouth. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Out on the horizon, water swirls. Someone is swimming amidst the swaying kelp, and they are waiting for you, and this feels right.
It is a second chance. For you, for her, for life to prove you both wrong: that not everyone leaves, betrays, or abandons forever. That forgiveness is real, and that sometimes—just sometimes—there can be peace, even after long war.
Step into an ocean that glitters like crystal, foam brushing your knees and surf rolling over your thighs. Swim without fear, letting the currents of fate and time draw you to waters where the ground falls away, leaving you suspended in the green. Draw a slow, singular breath.
And
then
you
look
down.