Non, petit cheri mwen yo, papa mwen would murmur, exhaustion deep down in his voice, unlike me, Bèl Flè never tired. And how blessed we are now because of her endurance.
I hadn’t planned on losing to Zonbi Robot.
I hadn’t planned on getting stomped by it, either.
I suppose those two things are one in the same now.
But I did plan on Zonbi Robot, in its haste to stomp me flat, stepping into the muck and morass just off the shores of Lake Michigan.
And I planned well.
One leg stuck fast, Zonbi Robot tries to free itself. Its stack belches furiously . It struggles harder.
And then, like a toddler true, it topples over. Into the swampy lake mire. Boiler extinguished. Thick, black smoke rising. Body still.
Never to stand again.
Oh, how Bèl Flè loved her dear Chicago! papa mwen would go on to say, now winding the keys in our right hips. Not only did Bèl Flè mwen seed her city and nurture her city and grow her city healthy again, he continued, but Bèl Flè mwen gave her city beauty, as well. On the inside. Where it counts.
Papa mwen would tap our chests again with his crooked finger, and then wind us some more.
Bèl Flè mwen placed copper and uranium, and gold and diamonds—and every other precious metal she could think of—far beneath Chicago’s surface. She wanted pitit cheri li—her dear child—to thrive. To live long. To excel.
And the State of Illinois was jealous of her for that.
Here, papa mwen would lose his smile, and his voice would change as he played the role of the State of Illinois.
The bombs scorched our lands, too! he would whine, thin and reedy. We want to be beautiful, too! he would beg, like the childish, no-good brat the State of Illinois had become.
So, papa mwen would continue in his normal, but frail voice, Bèl Flè sent frè mwen—my brother—Jean Baptiste Point du Sable, to the governor in Springfield bearing gifts. She sent him with copper and coal and uranium and steel. She even sent him with that rich, loamy pristine soil.
But the State of Illinois was not satisfied. This is not enough! they told frè mwen. Give us more! Give us the diamonds! Give us the gold!
One last time, papa mwen would massage his right hand and gather his remaining strength as he wound the last of us.
But frè mwen refused, papa mwen continued. He was steadfast. He was Lord Mayor. You have what you need, Jean Baptiste told them. You have more than enough to succeed and become a strong state again. But that was not what the State of Illinois wanted to hear.
But at long last, papa mwen collapsed into his huge, leather wingback chair, and he finished his story.
So the State waged war against Bèl Flè’s child, Chicago, he would whisper, sleep coming on him. They built huge, horrible robots and huge, horrible bombs with those precious metals Bèl Flè gave them.
Frè mwen, Jean Baptiste, seceded Chicago from the State and declared it sovereign. But, by then, it was an empty gesture.
Here, we would lean forward as one to catch Papa’s last few words.
Many people died. Much of what Bèl Flè mwen nurtured was lost. Including our love.
But not her love for frè mwen. She loved his strength. She loved his tenacity. She loved his leadership.
She loved him more than me.
And then, papa mwen would snore until dawn.
I can see what little of Zonbi Robot the lake cannot swallow. My head is twisted at an odd angle. I am crushed and broken, like Marie-Louise.
And still, I lie here, yet.
Perhaps, the Lord Mayor will find me. Perhaps he will wind me. Perhaps, he will tell me stories of Bèl Flè ak papa mwen.
He must. Bèl Flè has gone out West. I am all he has now.
One of my first visual memories is of Marie-Louise. She is the first one I saw when I opened my eyes.
She had been so excited when papa nou was building me. She begged him to be present when he finished me.
She was beautiful. I remember the shape of her head. It was sleek. It was sexy. It was aerodynamic.
(Unlike mine now.)
She was a shade of copper that shone like gold when papa nou polished her.
(Unlike me now.)
She was so vibrant. So full of life. Her windup keys whirred with so much energy.
(Unlike mine now.)
Oh, those first few days! We were fast. No one could beat us. Not even the wind down.
Or so we thought.
How naïve we were. We didn’t know. How could we know?
Ou pa ka mare pye lanmò.
You can’t outrun death.
Good Hunting
Ken Liu
Night. Half moon. An occasional hoot from an owl.
The merchant and his wife and all the servants had been sent away. The large house was eerily quiet.
Father and I crouched behind the scholar’s rock in the courtyard. Through the rock’s many holes I could see the bedroom window of the merchant’s son.
“Oh, Hsiao-jung, my sweet Hsiao-jung…”
The young man’s feverish groans were pitiful. Half-delirious, he was tied to his bed for his own good, but Father had left a window open so that his plaintive cries could be carried by the breeze far over the rice paddies.
“Do you think she really will come?” I whispered. Today was my thirteenth birthday, and this was my first hunt.
“She will,” Father said. “A hulijing cannot resist the cries of the man she has bewitched.”
“Like how the Butterfly Lovers cannot resist each other?” I thought back to the folk opera troupe that had come through our village last fall.
“Not quite,” Father said. But he seemed to have trouble explaining why. “Just know that it’s not the same.”
I nodded, not sure I understood. But I remembered how the merchant and his wife had come to Father to ask for his help.
“How shameful!” The merchant had muttered. “He’s not even nineteen. How could he have read so many sages’ books and still fall under the spell of such a creature?”
“There’s no shame in being entranced by the beauty and wiles of a hulijing,” Father had said. “Even the great scholar Wong Lai once spent three nights in the company of one, and he took first place at the Imperial Examinations. Your son just needs a little help.”
“You must save him,” the merchant’s wife had said, bowing like a chicken pecking at rice. “If this gets out, the matchmakers won’t touch him at all.”
A hulijing was a demon who stole hearts. I shuddered, worried if I would have the courage to face one.
Father put a warm hand on my shoulder, and I felt calmer. In his hand was Swallow Tail, a sword that had first been forged by our ancestor, General Lau Yip, thirteen generations ago. The sword was charged with hundreds of Daoist blessings and had drunk the blood of countless demons.
A passing cloud obscured the moon for a moment, throwing everything into darkness.
When the moon emerged again, I almost cried out.
There, in the courtyard, was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen.
She had on a flowing white silk dress with billowing sleeves and a wide, silvery belt. Her face was pale as snow, and her hair dark as coal, draping past her waist. I thought she looked like the paintings of great beauties from the Tang Dynasty the opera troupe had hung around their stage.
She turned slowly to survey everything around her, her eyes glistening in the moonlight like two shimmering pools.
I was surprised to see how sad she looked. Suddenly, I felt sorry for her and wanted more than anything else to make her smile.