Girl
THEPAWANGHADcome into town driving a trimlittle camper that he'd
parked on the very edge of the village, where the neat, orderly paddy
fields butted up against an unapologetically wild, unruly tangle of
forest, "so as to keep out ofeveryone's way," he'd said. Such was
the demand for his services as a handler of unruly spirits that he saw
no use in settling down in one place. "I bring my home with me
wherever I go," he'd told Suraya's mother earnestly as he left. "And I
help whoever I can, insha Allah."
So, even in the inky darkness of midnight under a cloud-clogged
sky, it was easy enough for Suraya and Pink to sneak past Mama
snoring gently in her usual seat in front of the flickering TV screen
and out of the house, through the paths and shortcuts as familiar as
the lines on her own palm, to where the battered camper stood, a
faint light glowing from one window.
From his perch on Suraya's shoulder, Pink sniffed. Explain to me
why we are doing this again?
"I told you," Suraya whispered back. "There's something about
this guy that just doesn't feel right. I want to know what he's up to."
Be careful,he toldher. But she didn't answer; she was too busy
sidling up against the walls of the camper, stretching on her tiptoes
to peek into its streaky windows.
They are too high for you,he pointed out helpfully.And anyway,
the curtains are closed. You would not be able to see.
She glared at him. "All right, then, Mr. Helpful, you go in there and
tell me what you see."
He sniffed again and hopped off her shoulder and toward the
door of the camper. In the darkness, she could just make out his little
body as it wriggled through the keyhole and disappeared.
He was gone a long time. Suraya shifted her weight from one foot
to the other as she waited, wiping the sweat that dripped from her
brow with the back of her hand, trying to ignore the shadows that
seemed to waver and shift as she watched, the rustling and
whispering that wafted from the undergrowth. It's just the trees,she
told herself. Just the wind blowing through the branches. Nothing to
worry about.
Then she heard a sound that had nothing to do with the trees at
all, or the screeches of the insects that sang loudly in the still night.
The click of a door handle.
She turned just in time to see the door of the camper swing
slowly, silently open.
There was nobody there. There was nothing but the empty
doorway, faintly illuminated by the light inside the camper.
Suraya felt her body begin to tremble all over, and she turned
away from the yawning emptiness, ready to run.
Suraya.
She looked back. "Pink?"
She feltthe familiar, reassuring tap of his little feet as helanded
on her shoulder. It's all right. There's nobody here. He's out.
Suraya took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady her thundering
heart. "Excellent. Now let's go see what's going on."
She climbed up the steps of the camper slowly, partly to make
sure she didn't make a sound, partly because her knees still felt
decidedly wobbly.
Inside, the camper was tidy, organized, and achingly,
disappointingly normal. The pawang had left a small lamp on, its
fluorescent glow straining to light its surroundings. A cursory glance
through the contents of the cupboards revealed a small space
dedicated to basic cookery ingredients—a little carafe of canola oil, glass jars with salt and sugar beached along the sides, bottles of
sauces in every shade and spice variant, from the caramel darkness
of sweet soy sauce to the flaming red of a sauce made with tiny,
dangerously hot bird's-eye chilis. The rest held row upon row of
leather- and clothbound books, some new, some with flakes of
material peeling off the spines like sunburned skin. There were no
photographs or ornaments to provide some insight into his solitary
life, and no little messes; no papers strewn carelessly over tabletops,
no crumpled piles of dirty clothes left to fester on the floor.
"A place for everything, and everything in its place," she
whispered to herself. It was something Mama often said when
Suraya's room started getting out of control; she didn't think the
pawang had ever been out of control in his life.
Pink had peeled himself from her shoulder and gone exploring on
his own, and she'd almost forgotten where he was until she heard a
small gasp from the bedroom.
Suraya. Come here.
"Hmm?" She ran her hand over the multicolored spines of the
books, trying to make out their titles in the dim light. "In a minute,
Pink."
Now.Something in his voice made her look up. You need to see
this.
She walked down the narrow little corridor toward him.
The first thing she noticed was the little bed, perfectly made, the
blue bedspread folded so neatly and so tightly over the corners that
each one was as sharp as a knife's edge.
The second thing she noticed was Pink, sitting squarely in the
center of that smooth blue bedspread, his mouth set in a grim line,
staring at something right behind her.
The third thing she noticed, as she slowly turned around, was a
wall filled with row upon row of shelves, from floor to ceiling, fitting
neatly around the narrow sliver of doorway she'd just come through.
The fourth thing she noticed was the jars.
There were so many of them, lined up along each shelf like
sentinels, tall jars, thin jars, fat jars, each made of clear glass with a
silver top screwed on tight.
And inside each one, a dark shape.
Suraya frowned and took a step closer. One jar held what she
recognized as a musang, thetype of civet that often scrabbled lightly
across their roof in the light of the moon, curled up with itseyes shut
tight. One heldan owl with downy gray feathers and long talons that
ended in wicked points; its eyes too were closed. One—and it was at
this point that Suraya began to tremble so hard that she felt her teeth
tap-tap-tapping against each other in her mouth—held a baby,
completely naked, its skin tinged a sickly green, its ears tapering at
the tips, the sharp points of tiny fangs resting against its bottom lip
as it slept. And more, so many more things she couldn't even
recognize, the stuff of spite and nightmares.
Taking a deep breath, Suraya bent forward to peer more closely
into one of the jars in which there rested something she couldn't
quite make out.
Two tiny eyes peered back.
They sat in a tiny face, and the face belonged to a tiny figure, no
bigger than the tip of her little finger. It was black all over, and its little
limbs ended in wickedly clawed fingers and toes, and it looked at her
without blinking.
She hadoften read about little girls who found imps and fairies in
the woods andmade friends with them. This little imp did not look
like it wanted to make friends.
As she watched, it narrowed its eyes, bared a mouth full of sharp,
pointed fangs at her, and hissed with such venom that its glass
prison shook.
She backed away quickly, her hands shaking.
Row upon rowof jars, row upon row of dark shapes that had
begun to move restlessly against their glass confines. And they were
all staring right at her.
Suraya felt her heart pounding in her ears. Each stare pierced
her skin like a thousand tiny pinpricks, and yet somehow she
couldn't move.
Run,she heard a voice whisper, like the rustling of old leaves,
then another, then another, then another, louder and louder until the
rustle built itself up into a roar. RUN RUN RUNRUN RUN RUN RUN
RUN RUN.
Suraya. Pink's voice, urgent and scared, brought her abruptly
back to herself. I suggest you do as they tell you.
And with her ghost clinging to her left shoulder, Suraya raced out
of the camper and back home, the words still echoing in her ear with
every step.
In the shadows of the restless banana trees, the pawang
watched her go. Behind the smudged lenses of his glasses, his eyes
gleamed.