chapter 2

Ghost

BY THE TIME Suraya was five years old, she should have broken

various bones in her body at least twelve different times, been

poisoned twice, and possibly have actually died on seven separate

occasions.

Yet she grew like a weed and was just about as welcome as one

everywhere she went. It wasn't that the villagers didn't like her; it was

just that trouble seemed to cling to her like a shadow or a bad smell.

And yet, they muttered to themselves, shaking their heads as she

ran helter-skelter past them, she seemed to lead a sort of charmed

life: she picked not-quite-ripe fruit from the orchards and never

complained of tummy aches; she ran across roads without a single

thought for the cars or bicycles that might be zooming past; she

climbed trees far too tall for her and fell from them often, yet always

seemed to land on her feet; and once, she poked at an ant mound

and giggled as angry red fire ants swarmed all over her body, tickling

her with their feet and never leaving a single mark. In this way, she

went through her days without a care in the world, secure in the

knowledge that she would somehow always be safe.

It was harder work than the ghost had ever done in his life,

watching and worrying over a young master-to-be who never seemed to think about her own safety and never, ever stopped

moving. At least three times now, he'd been sorely tempted to cast a

binding spell that would keep her arms and legs stuck to her body so

that they could both just sit still and catch their breath. But she never

stayed in one place long enough for him to even attempt it.

Take today, for instance. He'd already stopped a stray dog from

biting her as she'd tried to ruffle its fur, pulled her back from falling

into a storm drain, and swatted wasps away from her face as she

craned her neck to get a closer look at their nest, all the while

clinging precariously to a swaying tree branch.

Once or twice, he caught those dark eyes looking his way and

paused, waiting breathlessly to see if she realized he was there—

and if she did, if she realized what he was—but she never did. Once

or twice more, he'd felt an overpowering urge to show himself to her,

if only to tell her to STOP EATING THINGS SHE FOUND LYING ON

THE GROUND—but he never did.

The one time they had interacted, it was because she'd spotted

him in his grasshopper form in the grass and tried to catch him,

giggling gleefully as he leaped his mightiest leaps, heart pounding,

trying to escape her sweaty palms and none-too-gentle grip (Suraya

loved bugs and animals, but she sometimes loved them too hard).

He'd thankfully escaped without having to defend himself in some

terrifying way, but the close call had been jarring.

One afternoon when Suraya for once wasn't running the ghost

ragged chasing her, he sat by her side at the old stone table that

stood beneath the frangipani tree in the front garden. Sweat

plastered Suraya's hair to her face and neck as she concentrated on

a piece of paper before her, her chubby fingers wrapped around a

purple crayon, white flowers scattered all around her. The ghost

rubbed his spindly grasshopper arms together and wondered idly

what she could be drawing that required so much concentration, her

tongue poking out of one side of her mouth the way it did whenever

she was entirely focused on something. Every few minutes, a blob of

snot would creep down from one nostril—she'd caught a cold from

splashing through the paddy fields, narrowly avoiding several vicious

snakes lurking within the water—and she'd sniff ferociously, sending

it shooting back into her nose again.

"Suraya."

The call came from the house, and the ghost watched as her little

body immediately tensed, as she always did when she heard THAT

voice.

The woman appeared at the door. Little had changed about her in

the years since the ghost had first seen her, and she was still a

mystery to him. The most he knew was that she was a teacher,

which explained her stiff bearing, the chalk dust that clung to her

clothing like white shadows, the sharp, acrid smell of the Tiger Balm

ointment that she applied liberally to her aching shoulders and back

after a long day in the classroom. Every so often, he would put out

some feelers and probe her mind, trying to figure her out. But all he

found was hints of loneliness and a lot of locked doors.

There were times when keeping them locked seemed difficult for

her, though, times when she looked at Suraya with a softness in her

eyes, when her hand reached out to caress the girl's hair. Those

times the ghost looked at the woman and thought: There you are.

Those times didn't come by often, but they happened enough to

make the ghost wonder about the woman and the witch and their

story, about those letters and the way her handwriting looped and

swirled to form that one final terse sentence (Do not contact us

again). These moments were enough, in fact, to make him feel the

merest twinge of sympathy for her. He wasn't sure he liked feeling it;

ghosts weren't meant to be sympathetic, of all things.

"Come inside now, Suraya," the woman continued to call, as tall

and pale as ever. "It's time for lunch."

"Coming!" The girl snatched her drawing off the table and ran,

almost tripping in her eagerness to reach the door. "Look, Mama!"

she said proudly, brandishing the crumpled paper. "I made this for

you!"

The ghost craned his neck, but couldn't quite manage to see the

drawing.

"Very nice," the woman said, and it was as if she was a tube that

every last bit of toothpaste had been squeezed out of, leaving her

dry and flat. "Now come inside and eat." She paused to glance down

at Suraya's feet, which were, as usual, bare. "Mind you wash your feet first, they're filthy." And she turned and walked away, the paper

fluttering to the ground in her wake.

Suraya's shoulders sagged, and in their downturned slopes the

ghost saw all the sadness and disappointment that weighed so

heavily on her young body, and the place where his heart would

have been if he had one ached for her.

There had been so many times over the years where he had

longed to show himself to her, yet he had always held himself back.

The child was still so young, after all. But he yearned to be seen and

to be commanded, to be sent out into the world to do her bidding.

And if he were honest with himself, he yearned to protect Suraya

and her fragile human heart from the cruel, harsh fingers of a world

seemingly intent on crushing it to powder.

(This, he told himself, was perfectly natural. A pelesit must have

a master, and that master must be protected. Nothing wrong with

that.)

"Hurry up, Suraya." The voice held a note of impatience this time.

"Coming!"

As the ghost followed her into the cool recesses of the house, he

paused to take in the childish drawing of two purple figures, one tall

and one small, holding hands under a bright yellow sun. The tall one

had a neat round bun. The small one had a big smile. And in those

technicolor scribbles, he saw nothing but loneliness.

It is time, he thought to himself. It is time she knows who I am.

That night, while the little girl sprawled on her bedroom floor drawing

yet more pictures in the hour before bed, the ghost paced back and

forth on the ledge of her open window, trying to calm himself. He did

not understand why his throat was dry and tight, or why it felt like his

chest cavern was filled with a thousand butterflies frantically

fluttering their soft wings, but he wished they would stop. A pelesit

needs a master, he told himself firmly. She must know who you are.

And that was why he slowly unwound himself from his little

grasshopper body, rising like smoke, growing and swelling into

himself until he stood before her, dark as night and horned and

scaled, in all his horrifying glory.

But Suraya merely sat up and looked at him with the same naked

curiosity she trained on everything. "Hello," she said, running the

back of her hand across her dripping nose and leaving a trail of snot

that she quickly wiped on her pink pajama pants.

The ghost paused. He suddenly felt very unsure of himself.

Hello? His voice came out as a squeak, and he cleared his throat,

red-faced. I mean . . . hello.

"Who are you?"

He drew himself up and took a breath. This was his moment. I

am a dark spirit, he announced rather grandly. I am your inheritance,

your grandmother's legacy. I am yours to command. I will smite your

enemies. I will . . .

"What's a 'heritance?" Her big brown eyes were full of questions.

The ghost sagged and sighed. I'm a . . . present, he said finally.

From your granny. She sent me to take care of you.

"I have a granny?" This time her eyes were wide and full of

excitement.

Not anymore, he told her gently, and Suraya slumped. But you

have me now.

She brightened at this. "That's true," she said, nodding happily. "I

have you, and you can be my friend, and we can play together. Only

Mama might not like us playing at nighttime, because I'm s'posed to

be asleep soon. . . ." The little girl stopped suddenly and clapped a

hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Only I can't tell her about you,"

she said conspiratorially, leaning close. "She wouldn't like this at all.

She doesn't like 'magic and fairy tales and other whimsical

nonsense.'" At the last few words she crossed her eyes and put on a

mocking, sing-song voice that the ghost supposed was meant to be

an imitation of her mother. It was not, he noted, particuarly accurate.

I am not a mere playmate, he said disdainfully. Nor am I a

character from some childhood tale. I am a pelesit. I can do

whatever you command. And I can protect you.

"Oooh, does this mean you're like a genie? Or . . . or my FAIRY

GODMOTHER?"

I don't grant wishes, the ghost said hurriedly. (Fairy godmothers!

She wouldn't want one of those if she really knew fairies, he thought,

with an indignant sniff. The stories he could tell. . . .)

Suraya's expression moved quickly from eager anticipation to

resignation, with a quick stop at disappointment in between. "Oh

well," she said with the air of one used to life's many letdowns. "I

suppose you can't help that." She paused to scratch the tip of her

nose.

"So what's your name?"

My name?

"Duuuuuh." She dragged out the one syllable until it sounded like

at least six. "Everyone has a name. See, like this"—she gestured to

the rag doll next to her—"This is Nana. And that one's Bingo, and

that one's Ariel like the princess, and that one's Saloma like the

pretty lady in those boring old movies Mama likes to watch, only I

call her Sally because Saloma is just too long, and that one's Suraya

the Second because she's going to rule the kingdom after me, and

that one's . . ."

The chatter went on, but the ghost barely heard it. Nobody, as far

as he could remember, had ever asked him for his name. The witch

had only ever addressed him as "you," as in, "You! Go and rot this

farmer's entire crop of bananas, would you," or "You! I need you to

give this woman nightmares all night so that her competitor wins the

beauty pageant."

There was a pause while Suraya took a breath, and he quickly

spoke before she could get going again. I don't have a name.

She gasped, looking shocked. "You don't?"

I . . . I don't think so. The ghost felt strangely embarrassed by this

and had to remind himself that ghosts don't have feelings.

"That's okay," she said, reaching out a hand to pat him

consolingly on one scaly paw. "I'll think of one for you. I'm SUPER

good at names. I named all my toys all by myself. And I named that

orange cat that likes to come around and steal our fried fish from the

kitchen table. He's called Comel now."

Comel?

"Means 'cute,'" she explained seriously, as if he didn't know.

"'Cause he's cute." She tilted her head to one side, frowning as she

stared at him, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth, her

hand still clutching a bright pink crayon.

The ghost could not help feeling nervous. Names, he knew,

existed to give shape to the nebulous, ground the unknown in a

comforting reality. He did not think he could cope with being called

cute.

Then Suraya brightened. "I KNOW!" she shouted gleefully.

Please don't be Comel, please don't be Comel, please don't be

Comel . . .

"Your name is . . . Pink."

PINK?! It was much worse than he had feared.

"Yes!" She climbed up onto her bed and began to bounce up and

down. "Pink!"

I am a dark spirit, the ghost said desperately. I am a powerful

being. I have the wisdom of the ages. I cannot be called PINK.

"But you are! You're Pink!"

He sat down heavily on the tattered carpet and sighed. But WHY

am I Pink?

"Because." Suraya shot him such a withering look that he felt

rather silly for asking. "That's my favorite color." She slipped off the

bed and ran up to pat him on the cheek. "You'll get used to it," she

told him. "It's a good name. A very good name, maybe the bestest

I've made so far."

As good a name as any, I suppose.

Outside, they heard the light, quick step of Suraya's mama.

"Quick, hide!" she hissed, and the ghost now known as Pink quickly

shrunk back down into his grasshopper form and hopped into the

pajama pocket Suraya held open for him, just as the door swung

open.

The woman took in Suraya's bright eyes and feverish cheeks and

pursed her thin lips. "What games have you been playing in here?"

"Nothing, Mama," Suraya said. "Just drawing."

The woman's eyes scanned the room as if she were looking for

something, and the ghost felt Suraya's little fingers move protectively

over her pocket.

At last, finding nothing, the woman looked at Suraya. "Well then.

Time for bed. Go and brush your teeth, and wash your feet or you'll

have nightmares. Don't forget to say your duaa."

"Okay, Mama."

The woman swept off back down the hallway toward the living

room, where a stack of papers waited to be marked before a

flickering television set. And there she stayed for a long, long time,

never smiling even as the laugh track played artificial chuckles over

the bumbling antics on the screen, her red pen scratching and

scribbling busily as Suraya and Pink slept curled up against each

other on her narrow bed.

"Tell me about my grandma, Pink."

They were in bed, huddled up together as they always were. It

was rainy season once again, and there was a constant, dreary night

drizzle tapping on the window. In the darkness, Pink could just make

out the outline of Suraya's little head as she leaned against his

shoulder.

Again, little one? She asked about the witch constantly; he was

running out of stories to tell.

"Please, Pink."

He sighed. Very well. He closed his eyes and called up memories

of the witch, delicate as smoke wending from a candle flame. Your

grandmother was a small woman, and round, and soft. She had no

corners, no sharp edges to her. When she smiled, her whole face

crinkled up and her eyes would disappear into two thin lines.

He did not add that that smile only appeared on her face after

she had caused some mischief or other; he often edited these

stories in his head before reciting them for Suraya, having long ago

decided that there was no point presenting her with yet another

disappointing family member. Between her strange, distant mother

and her dead father, she had enough of those already.

Suraya smiled. "Tell me the story about the jambu again."

It was her favorite. There was one day when a little boy was

standing just outside your grandmother's garden. Your grandmother

had a big jambu tree, so big that some of its branches stretched

beyond the fence. And the jambu themselves were miraculous fruits:

bright red, crisp, juicy.

Pink could almost smell the sweet tang of the jambu tree in full

bloom.

The little boy was staring up at the tree, his eyes round with

hunger. Your grandmother had harvested most of the fruit, but there

was one perfect bell-shaped jambu she'd left behind, right near the

top—too high for him to reach. Your grandmother was hanging

clothes on the line. She saw him staring up at her tree, and she

knew what he wanted. But she herself was too small to reach the

fruit, and too old to be climbing trees with her aching back and her

quivering knees.

"So what did she do?" Pink could hear the laughing anticipation in

her voice. She knew exactly what would happen next.

She waved her hand, Pink told her. She waved her hand, and

one of the tree branches began to move.

Suraya giggled, then quickly stifled it before her mother heard.

She was meant to be asleep.

Slowly, the branch made its way to that perfect jambu and

plucked it with twiggy wooden fingers. Then it passed it to a branch

below, which passed it on to the next, and so on and so on, until at

last the lowest branch handed the fruit to the little boy, whose mouth

hung open in shock and delight. "Thank you," he gasped, looking

first at the tree and then at your grandmother. "Thank you." And in

answer all she did was put her finger to her lips and wink at him

before she went back into her house to get away from the hot

afternoon sun.

There was a pause. From down the hall, they could hear the

blaring of the television, the old sitcom that was Mama's favorite:

"SO NO ONE TOLD YOU LIFE WAS GONNA BE THIS WAY."

Suraya sighed happily. "I always like hearing that story."

I know you do. He never told her what happened afterward as he

watched, hidden among the long blades of grass. The little boy bit

eagerly into the jambu he had so longed for. There was a yelp of

surprise and fear and a heavy, wet thwack as the fruit hit the ground,

then retching and splashing as the boy turned and vomited into the

bushes. The air filled with a foul, sour smell that lingered long after

the boy had run off home, tears streaming down his face.

Pink didn't tell her how much work it had been to bend that thick

wooden branch, how it had felt to burrow into the hard sweetness ofthat perfect jambu and turn it into nothing but rot and ruin, maggots

squirming through its flesh.

He told himself she didn't need to know. That it didn't matter.

"I'LL BE THERE FOR YOU," sang the TV. "'CAUSE YOU'RE

THERE FOR ME TOO."

Beside him, Suraya had fallen asleep.