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.”