“Suraya,” he heard the woman call as he watched. “Suraya. Come inside now. The sun is setting; it will be Maghrib soon.” And the little girl scampered unsteadily back to the unsmiling woman and disappeared into the house.
Suraya, the ghost whispered to himself carefully, letting the sound of it play on his tongue like the notes of a favorite song. Su-ra-ya. He savored each syllable, marveling at the delicate sounds, at their rhythm and their weight. So this, then, was to be his new master. Not old enough to bind him on her own, nor command him with the words she couldn’t quite speak. But he could wait.
When quiet finally descended on the old wooden house, and the night was deep and dark as ink, the ghost wafted into the child’s room and stared at her as she slept, hands pillowed under her cheek, her breathing steady and peaceful. There it was again—the sense that he was in the presence of greatness, that he was teetering on the precipice of something bigger than both of them. Carefully, almost reverently, he picked up the girl’s plump hand and nipped at her tiny little finger—just a little nip—and drank exactly three drops of the bright red blood that dripped from the cut, sealing it quickly when he was done. Her song was strong and wild, and it almost deafened him as her blood wound through his body, weaving their destinies together line by line, chain by chain. This was more than enough to get by, more than enough to bind them together, until the next full moon hung in the sky.
It is done, he whispered. And I am bound to you, until the end.
She shivered slightly under his gaze—she had no blanket—so he curled himself around her for warmth and smiled when she sighed happily in her sleep.
And at that moment, the ghost felt a twinge just where his heart ought to have been, if he had one.
Which he didn’t, of course.
Two
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.