PRAISE FOR THE GIRL WITH GHOST EYES
“The Girl with Ghost Eyes is a fun, fun read. Martial arts and Asian magic set in Old San Francisco make for a fresh take on urban fantasy, a wonderful story that kept me up late to finish.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Patricia Briggs
“A brilliant tale of magic, monsters, and kung fu in the San Francisco Chinatown of 1898 . . . This fantastic tale smoothly mixes Hong Kong cinema with urban fantasy, and Li-lin is a splendid protagonist whose cleverness and bravura will leave readers eager for her future adventures.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Boroson’s writing is both lyrical and captivating . . . This is a thrilling adventure through historical Chinatown, and an exquisite blend of history and myth set in a spirit-world you’ll never forget.”
—Rob Thurman, New York Times bestselling author
“An impressive first novel set in a beautifully realized world of Daoism and martial arts . . . One of those books you can’t wait to get back to.”
—Lian Hearn, author of the international bestselling Tales of the Otori series
“Packed with evocative imagery of the multitudes of spirits lurking just out of sight. Li-lin is a strong, determined character, but Boroson doesn’t make her wildly anachronistic for her time, imbuing her with filial loyalty and a respect for her culture that should not be called meekness.”
—Library Journal, starred review, Debut of the Month
“A thrilling world of kung fu, sorcery and spirits . . . The pace never slows, offering a constant stream of strange characters, dire threats, and heroic actions that makes the book a compelling page-turner . . . Nicely channels Hayao Miyazaki’s powerful visual imagination . . . Boroson may be a bright new voice in fantasy.“
—The A.V. Club
“A joy to read. Set against the backdrop of turn-of-the-century Chinatown, Boroson’s tale blends fluid, kinetic martial arts sequences with grotesque creatures and enough dramatic tension and pathos to hook readers and keep them.”
—Barnes & Noble Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog
“Li-lin is one of my all-time favorite female characters after reading this book; I simply fell in love with her . . . I expect to see The Girl with Ghost Eyes on lots of “Best of” lists this year. It’s certainly going to be on mine. Highly recommended.”
—The Speculative Herald, 10/10 rating
“Masterful writing . . . Boroson has has done his research quite extensively, and he’s approached every aspect of the book with thoughtfulness and respect . . . I am absolutely ravenous for more of Li-Lin’s story.”
—Christina Ladd, Geekly Inc.
“A page turner that encapsulates the best traditions of the wuxia genre with supernatural elements that keep story and characters fresh. A classy debut. Highly recommend.”
—Janie Chang, author of Three Souls and Dragon Springs Road
“This debut just wowed me through and through. I can’t mention enough how enthralling this story is.”
—Fantasy Book Critic, #1 Debut of the Year
“Boroson weaves such a beautiful tale.”
—Weina Dai Randel, author of The Moon in the Palace and The Empress of Bright Moon
“A wonderful fantasy tale based on traditional Chinese myths and religions—this is important to me because fantasy can seem very western/white.”
—Paper & Pixels
“Well-researched folklore and the intricate customs and structure of San Francisco’s immigrant community at the century’s end make this debut fantasy feel like nothing you’ve read before . . . rich, folklore-based fantasy in a vivid moment of history . . . The vibrant life of Chinatown’s immigrant community is revealed with an action-packed punch.”
—Come Hither Books
“A delightful blend of fantasy, horror, mystery, and suspense, with a heavy dose of Chinese mythology and a touch of Bruce Lee.”
—Top New Fantasy
“Like a great kung fu movie by way of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
—Booklist
“Filled with exciting martial-arts action and fascinating Chinese folklore, this is a thrilling and masterful novel with an unforgettable heroine.”
—Off the Shelf
“If you’re a fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural, Spirited Away, and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, I have a feeling that you will love this as well.”
—Never Anyone Else book reviews
“Boroson’s meticulously researched novel is a beautiful blend of ancient Chinese myths and hard historical realisms.”
—High Voltage
“[A] suspenseful, tightly plotted story about magic outside the European tradition.”
—The Globe and Mail
“A great paranormal/fantasy in a historical urban setting that focuses on a group of people too often ignored in history and in non-fiction.”
—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
“A magical tale steeped in Chinese folklore and history, with memorable characters, exciting action, and one very special eyeball spirit.”
—Books, Bones, and Buffy, Best Surprise of 2015
“Too much weird stuff”
—Goodreads, 1-star review
—Library Journal, starred review, Debut of the Month
—Goodreads newsletter, a Best Book of the Month
—Bustle.com, Best Diverse Magical Fantasy Novels
—Libraryreads, Top Ten Books of the Month
—BookRiot, Must-Read Retellings of Myth and Folklore
—The Speculative Herald, 10/10 rating
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
—Diary of a Bookworm, Favorite Books of the Year
—Fantasy Book Critic, #1 Debut of the Year
ALSO BY M. H. BOROSON
The Daoshi Chronicles:
The Girl with Ghost Eyes
Copyright © 2019 by M. H. Boroson
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Talos Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
Talos Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Talos Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].
Talos Press® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.talospress.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-945863-09-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-945863-12-7
Cover illustration by Jeff Chapman
Cover design by Claudia Noble
Printed in the United States of America
For Bram Boroson, astrophysicist and pirate,
the best brother I’ve ever had,
and for
Sammo Hung Kam-Bo.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Research for The Girl with Ghost Eyes and The Girl with No Face has taken over a decade of constant focus. First and foremost, I would like to thank photographer Sally Elizabeth Wright for her support during that time.
Literary agent Sandy Lu plucked the manuscript out of the slush pile and championed it through the rigors of the publishing industry, and for this I will always be grateful. Bringing her own experience and staggering intellect to bear on the material, Sandy held the books to the highest standards, and deser
ves so much praise.
My editor at Skyhorse Publishing’s Talos Press, Cory Allyn, took a chance on these unusual books. He came to the story with fresh eyes, clear observations, and profound understandings. His contributions were amazing, and I am indebted to him.
Entertainment agent Angela Cheng Caplan challenges me to grow and be brave, every time we speak. When, during our first conversation about a potential film or TV adaptation, she said, “We must not allow Li-lin to be fetishized as some exoticized notion of ‘authenticity,’” I knew the story was in good hands.
Stephen Kuo and Matt Greenberg have been my friends and brothers, even though we’ve never met. I’m so glad to find people who share my love for the movie Mr. Vampire!
Many Chinese and Chinese diasporic families welcomed me into their homes, telling me stories and answering questions, suggesting what should be included and how certain people and events should be represented. I hope this book lives up to their acts of generosity. Peijun Gao and her family fed me, challenged me, and filled me with stories. Shuling Yi’s accounts of life as a Daoshi’s daughter and Shifu Li Shu-Hong’s detailed recollections of exorcistic rites were tremendously valuable resources. I want to acknowledge their contributions.
For twenty years, I have been lucky enough to have a brilliant friend in Thomas W. Potter. Both monk and tiger, Thomas’s tremendous insight into storytelling has helped me develop as a novelist.
John Jung, a noted psychologist and a historian of Chinese America, has been something of a mentor and something of an inspiration to me. Thank you so much, Dr. Jung, for sharing your research and your insights.
Film producer Nina Yang Bongiovi blew me away with her unstoppable energy and boundless enthusiasm for this project. She told me a story about her brother (now a Buddhist monk) getting chased down a mountain by a horde of faceless ghosts, a story which fascinates and haunts me to this day.
I also want to thank my parents, Warren and Rebecca Boroson, who raised me, taught me language, instilled a love of stories in me, and supported me through everything. My brother Bram Boroson, who is both a professor of astrophysics and a swashbuckling pirate on the high seas, has always guided me toward good books and fresh ways of seeing.
When tradition is concrete, when it is part of life, sacred, something to be feared and loved, then it takes the form of ghosts . . . Americans have no ghosts.
—Fei Xiaotong
CONTENTS
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Author’s Note
Recommended Reading
Recommended Movies
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Listen to me, Daughter. Your mother’s soul has been condemned to Xuehu Diyu, the Blood Pond Hell.”
This was sixteen years ago; the year was 1883. At that time, my father’s hair, his eyebrows, and his mustache were still black, he still seemed infallible to his seven-year-old daughter, and he still had both eyes.
He fumed like a furnace when he learned of my mother’s fate. Had he not spent years guiding the souls of the dead? Had he not, time and again, placed his life on the line to defend humanity from incursions of the ghostly? After so often risking his own purity of spirit to protect the living from the ghoulish, monstrous, and demonic, he felt my mother’s punishment as an injustice, an insult to his path.
“Fourteen days after a woman’s soul is condemned to the Blood Pond,” he told me, “her sons can try to rescue her, with the assistance of a Daoist priest like me. If her sons fail, they can work with the Daoshi and try again on the thirty-fifth day. But your mother has no sons,” he did not bother to conceal his regret, “so she must suffer in that Hell for forty-two days. Only then can you try to salvage her soul, Daughter, with my help. And you will only get to try once. Ni buyo luan lai a.”
The expression meant: Don’t fool around; don’t mess around; don’t do anything stupid.
Forty-two days. We were traveling to the Pearl River Delta, for those six weeks. We spent the days walking or riding ferries; in the evenings, my father worked preparing the rites, training me to do what must be done. The territory was familiar to him; he’d exorcised so many ghosts and saved so many souls, but my highest duties in life until that point had involved learning to clean and sew. I blamed myself for Mother’s death, so the responsibility for her salvation weighed heavily on me.
During those weeks I thought of her constantly, suffering, afloat in those hot red waters, and all because she gave her life for me. I cried for her, dreamt of her, promised myself I’d redeem her soul. Yet knowing the day would come when I could rescue her gave me something to live for, something to work towards; this hardened me and sharpened me like a weapon.
Forty-two days after my mother died, in a stone temple near Toisan, my father took out a large sheet of paper. As her husband, and as a Daoist priest, he wrote out the words of the Xuepenjing, the Blood-Pot Scripture, to read during the Poxuehu ritual, to Break the Blood Pond. He executed every brushstroke with the complete dedication he brought to all his activities. He wrote three elegant characters in black ink at the bottom—my name, Xian Li-lin.
“Your mother will suffer for centuries if you fail,” my father said, “so don’t act foolishly.” Standing barefoot on the cold stones, I swore an oath of filial piety to my mother, then dipped a brush in a saucer of vermilion ink and wrote the date of the ritual. I added the words he told me: “To repay my mother’s pains.”
On the cold stone floor my father placed a paper boat the size of a crouching cat. He examined my document, gave a brief nod, then folded the sheet into a large red envelope with golden filigree and cranes painted in white, and loaded the envelope aboard the paper ship. He piled some of my mother’s clothing, her jade bracelet, now cracked, and a pair of her shoes, aboard the paper boat as well. He tied a red string to the prow, and handed it to me.
I was only a seven-year-old girl but I clutched that red string; it was my sacred duty. Here was my chance to redeem the woman who suffered the pains of bearing me, who clothed, nurtured, and cared for me, the woman who sacrificed herself to give me time to flee.
My father had built a kind of square in the altar room, with borders made from bamboo and paper, symbolizing the giant iron walls that tower over the real Blood Pond Hell. Within those bamboo walls, I wielded that red string like a sword in my hand and started dragging the boat behind me. I was determined to bring salvation to my mother’s soul. Nothing would be allowed to stand in my way. The stone floor felt cold beneath my bare feet as I tugged that paper boat in circles around the inside border of the bamboo square, while my father, his voice cold as stone, barked the echoing incantations of the Xuepenjing Scripture.
He accompanied the incantation by tapping a quick beat on a hollow wooden drum shaped like a fish. The monotonous tapping came fast and steady, high-pitched and repetitive, mesmerizing. My footsteps fell in time with the drumbeats of the wooden fish. I closed my eyes and felt my mind slip away, entering a sacred trance,
journeying to an elsewhere, floating like a school of fish in the night-dark sea.
At some point, while I dragged that boat in circles around the table, everything changed. The paper model of a sailboat on a stone floor transformed, became a real ship. Its cloth sails billowed in the creaking wind, and I stood on its deck in another world. In Hell.
A barefoot child now sailed a real ship across a horrific sea of blood. Waves made of blood crashed against the hull; the screeching wind blasted at my masts; the stench of all that blood, hot and rusty, saturated the air. Together, the reek of blood and the motion of the blood-waves made me want to vomit. In this transfigured world I felt afraid. Had Father known this would happen? For the first time, I began to doubt I was capable of rescuing my mother, to question if my determination had been foolish.
Dark birds with iron beaks flew at me; ruthlessly I crushed their bodies in my hands and threw their beaks into the sea. Had I always been so bloodthirsty? The kind of child who could snap the necks of demon-crows without a second thought? No; I had become that girl on the day my mother was murdered.
But that was not this day. This would be the day when I came for her. On this day I would lift her from the sickening gush of those viscous red waves and rescue the woman who fed me with her body, held me, sang me to sleep, and traded her life for mine.
I sailed for hours, or maybe days. My eyes strained to see past the red sea, and sometimes, when the fog cleared, the horizon was visible; this bitter ocean was bounded by enormous iron walls, reaching up toward the sky. Somehow I knew exactly how to direct the ship and steer it unerringly across those waters, where souls bobbed like dumplings in a blood broth. Whatever power guided my hand navigated me past the other souls there, who gazed imploringly up toward me. How I wished I could save them too, save them all; but this ritual could save only one specific soul, and there was just this one chance, so I searched the faces of all the imprisoned souls for what seemed like hours until I found my mother.
Treading water, sweating, with rivulets of tears running through the crust of dried blood that covered her face, her hair stiff with blood, her eyes half-mad, Mother seemed barely aware of what was happening as I hauled her onto the deck. I wiped the dry blood off her face while she stared at me, with a hollow, heartsick look.
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