0076. Hak Nam.

“When I was a girl,” Grandmother said, “I dreamed of the fall of the first Kowloon. A river of red water struck the walls and split the city in two; a great golden carp rose from the waters, its belly gleaming and round. ‘This is punishment,’ he said, ‘for hiding the face of Nu Kua from the Sun. Hak Nam, the walled City of Darkness, will bow to the will of the gods.’ Two days later, the Republic agreed with the Westerners to tear the walled city down.”

Hai strained forward. In the yellow candlelight Grandmother’s face was a browned wood carving stroked by fingers of golden flame, shining smooth. “Did you ever see the golden carp again, Grandmother?”

With a chuckle the old woman reached for him, her blind-seeking fingers like broom straw. Milky eyes glittered with laughter. He moved until she found his head and patted his hair, her skin like dry parchment against his scalp. “Why do you have me tell this story again and again, boy?”

“Because one day I’ll see the sun,” he promised. “One day I’ll climb to the top of New Kowloon.”

Grandmother laughed again, her voice as reedy as the creaking wood of her chair. “Such ambition for a strong young man. Be careful the Sun doesn’t strike you down for your arrogance.”

“He’ll be happy to see me.” Hai flung his arms wide. “I’ll stand on the top of the tallest building and say ‘Look! Hak Nam has covered the face of your love again, but I bring news of Nu Kua!’ Then he’ll reward me with a golden carp of my own, and I’ll ride it to the sea. I’ll take you with me, Grandmother. We’ll build a hut of seashells, and I’ll catch fish for you every day.”

“Will you, now?” She traced her fingertips over Hai’s brow. Solemnity bled the laughter from her voice, leaving hollow echoes to chase each other around the corners of the tiny, cluttered room. “Golden carps are not to be ridden, my boy. They promise great change. When I saw the carp again he warned of a cloud that would cover the world, three days before the black wind swept over Hong Kong. It brought death and sin with it. People grew mad, and began to build like frenzied and frightened ants. Hak Nam rose again, tier by tier, path by path, and Nu Kua turned her face away in shame and grief, for she could not find the Sun past the city and beyond the dark cloud. She mourns under Hak Nam, and waits for the day when the Sun will cleanse her earth again.”

“But if Hak Nam is cleansed, where will we live?”

“Where we are meant to, Hai. Beneath the Sun.” Grandmother cupped his cheek and smiled. “Now be a good boy and run down to the market. I’ll need radishes for dinner.”

“Mm!” Bouncing to his feet, Hai kissed Grandmother’s wrinkled cheek, caught up his sandals in one hand, and ducked out the window into the neon darkness of Kowloon Walled City.