Girl
OUTSIDE,BEHINDTHEcoffee shop, Suraya and Jing paused to catch
their breath. Jing wore an expression of sheer disgust. "Ohmygod,
Sooz, do you think I drank it? Is that why it tasted so bad? What if I
just drank, like, cockroach juice coffee?" Her face took on a distinctly
gray shade.
Tell your friend to relax,Pink said, peering up and down the tiny
alleyway that stretched on beyond the back door. We arealone now.
As if to prove him wrong, a lone cockroach skittered past, making
soft clicking sounds against the cement floor, and causing Jing to
jump as though her toes were on fire.
. . . except for that one, he acknowledged.
"That was . . .odd," Suraya said slowly, and though shelooked
straight at Pink as she said it, she noticed he was very careful not to
meet her eye.
He made a great show of shrugging his little grasshopper
shoulders. The only odd thing was howthey ever passed a health
inspection with an infestation like that.
"Did you have anything to do with that?" She hated to ask, mostly
because she had the nagging feeling that she knew exactly what the
answer would be, and wouldn't like it at all. And maybe Pink knew
that too, because all he did was look away.
"I needa shower," Jing muttered, rubbing her arms as if she
could still feel the march of tiny cockroach legs on her skin. "Or two
showers. Fifteen, even." Ding,went Jing's phone. "Stop it, Ma," she
muttered to herself.
"No time for that," Suraya told her. "We've got a cemetery to
visit."
And a body to find.
Jing wrinkled her nose. "Okay, then, captain. Lead the way."
Tucked away from the crowded town center, the cemetery was trim
and neat, the grass free of weeds, the head- and tail stones of each
grave scrubbed clean.
Suraya had thought she would be a little afraid of it, even in
broad daylight. There was something about the idea of knowing
bodies were hidden in the ground beneath your feet that intimidated
her. Yet there was nothing scary about this place or its bodies. It was
too clean, too organized, too arranged, like the sterile, fluorescent-lit
aisles of a supermarket.
"So . . . how do we even do this?" Jing asked, scratching her
nose.
"I don't know," Suraya said."But we know we're looking for a
small grave. It's a start."
"Not much of a start."
"It's all we've got," Suraya pointed out. Her head was starting to
hurt. "Let's split up. You too, Pink."
He hadn't expected that; she could tell from the way his little body
stiffened, almost imperceptibly. But she needed, more than anything
right now, to be alone.
As you wish.
He bounded off her shoulder, and the three began to move in
different directions in the narrow spaces between stones.
Remember,Pink called out. Look for children. That will limit your
search somewhat.
Suraya repeated the words for Jing, who nodded but said nothing
in reply.
For a long time, the only sound in the cemetery was the faint
whistling of the wind whirling through the trees that shaded the graves.
The sunwas bright, and Suraya's eyes soon grew tired from trying to
make out the names on each headstone, some spelled out entirely in
the curving Arabic script that she had to work harder to recognize.
She paused beneath the spreading boughs of a tree so gnarled with
age that she couldn't even tell what fruit it might have once borne,
and wiped the sweat off her brow. Then she reached into her pocket,
where the marble lay snug inits cloth trappings. She wanted to feel
the smoothness of its surface, the reassuring weight of it in her hand.
She wanted to be comforted by its gentle, oddly familiar warmth.
But not this time.
As she reached down to brush it with her fingers, she felt it—a
sharp bite of electricity that made her squeal.
She stared at her hand in confusion. Get a grip, Suraya, she told
herself firmly. It's just a marble. Steeling herself, she reached into her
pocket again.
This time her agonized yelp echoed across the cemetery,
bouncing off the stones until it reached Jing and Pink, who turned to
her with puzzled faces.
"You okay, Sooz?" Jing called.
"Fine," she called back. "Just . . . uh, tripped."
Be careful, Pink told her.
"Stop nagging," she muttered under her breath. Gritting her teeth,
she plunged her hand into her pocket and grabbed the marble firmly,
ignoring the shot of current that immediately jolted through it and
buzzed in her ears.
The marble was vibrating.
"What in the world . . ." Suraya tried to remember to breathe, but
she couldn't seem to get it right. For a fleeting instant, she
considered throwing the marble as far away from her as she could,
gathering up her friends, and going home.
Then she remembered the pawang, and all that was at stake
here.
She stared at the quivering orb resting in the palm of her hand.
"Okay, then," she whispered."You wanted my attention. Now you've
got it. What do you want? What do I do with you?"
She half-expected a voice to answer from within its glassy
depths, but there was only silence.
Feeling slightly foolish, she held it to her ear, listening for
instructions that never came. Then she surreptitiously rubbed it with
her fingers, the way Aladdin rubbed the lamp, in case there was
even the slightest chance a genie would appear.
None did.
In despair, sheheld the marble up to her eye, trying to see if
there was a message she might have missed within.
Instead, as if she was looking right through it, she saw a tall, thin
figure sitting in the tree. He had a gaunt, pale face and dark,
mournful eyes that were trained directly at her.
The thing opened its mouth.
"You sweat a lot," it said.
Suraya blinked. Then she blinked again. She took the marble
away from her eye, and the being in the tree disappeared. She put it
back, and there he was again. He was clearly there, even if he
wasn't entirely solid; she could see straight through his body to the
pits and grooves and contours of the branch he sat on.
"Don't talk much, do you?"The ghost, as it was becoming
obvious to her this thing was, regarded her closely. Shecould just
make out the faint outline of the plain T-shirt and loose black pants
he wore, the oval shape of the black songkok perched on his shaggy
head. He looked like he was in his early twenties and somehow also
as if he had been around for a very, very long time. "I'd expected
more from the likes of you."
"The likes of me?"
"Witch, aren't you?" He bentdown to peer at her. "You've got a
clearly enchanted object there. Bit young, though." He straightened
up again. "Ooh, or is this a quest? It's a quest, isn't it? That's how it
is with these things. You've got a magical object, you've got either
someone clever with witchery, or you've got someone on some sort
of hero's journey. That's how it always was in the books." He peered
at her again. "You don't look much like a hero, to be sure."
"Why not?"
"You're a girl, for one thing."
This was the last straw. She had not come all this way to be
insulted by someone who was already dead. "How would you know
what a hero looks like anyway? If you can spew nonsense like that,
my guess is you didn't interact with too many girls while you were
alive. . . ."
The ghost bristled at this. "Insolent little thing," he sniffed. "When
I was alive, the likes of you would have been taken to task for such
impertinence."
"I'm sorry." She shrugged. "But you're not. Alive, that is. And you
started it, you know."
The ghost pouted. "I was only playing," he said sullenly. "You
needn't have been so hurtful. One can't help contracting bloody
dengue fever, after all."
"It's true," she said consolingly. "You couldn't very well have
stopped it once you had it." She thought of the campaigns her school
had run to help prevent the spread of dengue, then thought better of
mentioning them. Nobody wants to know the ways you can avoid
your own death—at least, not when you're already dead.
The ghost sighed. "Ah well. Why dwell on the past, eh?" He stuck
out a hand, before realizing what he'd done and puttingit into his
pocket with a sheepish expression. "Name's Hussein."
"Suraya."
"Well, then, Miss Suraya, what brings you to our neck of the
woods?" Hussein gestured expansively around the cemetery.
"Our?" Suraya glanced up and down the headstones; there was
no other ghost in sight. "You seem to be the only one out and about."
Hussein shrugged. "The others don't see much point in hanging
about during the day," he said. "They sleep. Even at night, there's
not much of a social life in these parts. Once in a while, there's a
mixer, during the full moon. That's about it." He sighed again. "Lot of
old folks here. Dead boring, it is. Oh hey, that's a pun!" He laughed
aloud, delighted with himself, as Suraya smiled dutifully.
"How about children?" she asked, trying hard to keep her voice
light, casual, as if the answerwasn't a matter of life and death. "Any
children here?"
Hussein frowned. "Not too many," he said. "It's a thriving little
town, see. Infant mortality isn't too much of an issue here. You've got one or two babies—stillbirths, the saddest little things, the older
aunties do love having them to cuddle, though—a couple of
drownings, one car crash . . ."
"Can you take me to see them?"
"Um, Sooz?" As if by magic, Jing materialized at her side, her
expression wary. "You do realize you're talking to yourself, right?"
"I hate to break it to you, Jing," Suraya said, passing her the
marble, as Pink bounded onto her shoulder. "But . . . I'm really not."
There was a muffled gasp, then a breathless,
"Cooooooooooooooool."
I see we have found ourselves some company.
"You can see him?"
Pink shrugged a grasshopper shrug. We are of the same kind.
"Like family."
On very remote branches of the same tree.
"So what do you miss most?" Jing said, addressing the tree
branch very seriously. "Nasi lemak or roti canai?"
Suraya snatched back the marble, ignoring Jing's protests.
"Hussein, can you take us to see the children's graves?"
"Of course." In one smooth leap, the ghost jumped down from the
tree and dusted some nonexistent debris from his noncorporeal rear.
"Follow me, ladies. And for the record," he said over his shoulder,
"the answer is nasi lemak. With a side of crispy fried chicken. Mmm."
There were three graves. They were small.
The four of them stood andstared at the names—Intan, aged
four; Ahmad, aged two; Liyana, aged two.
Is this all? Pink said.
"Not many kiddies here, like I said," said Hussein, in almost
apologetic tones. "There might be a few more, I can check . . ." He
scratched his ghostly head. "Why do you even want to see them,
though? I won't lie to you, it's more than a mite depressing
sometimes, seeing the little ones."
"We have our reasons. Can you . . . can you call the children?"
Suraya's palms were sweaty, and the marble felt slick and precarious
in her grasp.
Hussein snapped off a smart salute. "As you wish, m'lady."
He went to the first grave (Liyana, aged two) and rapped on the
headstone. "Assalamualaikum, little sister. Wake up, we have
visitors."
At first all was still, and Jing jabbed Suraya in the waist
surreptitiously. "Is something supposed to happen ah?"
It was a good thing Suraya held the marble, because Hussein's
glare was so icy it would have given Jing frostbite.
"Patience," hesaid stiffly. "Sabar. I mean, have you ever tried
waking up a two-year-old? I think not." He turned back to the
headstone andrapped again—a little harder this time. "Wake up,
little sister."
If you were looking, you might have noticed the earth move, ever
so slightly, right at the foot of the grave.
Then, slowly, a figure began to glide out of the ground, a figure
through which Suraya could see the outlines of the cemetery's rows
and rows of head- and tail stones.
The little girl ghost rubbed her eyes, glared at Hussein and said,
"WHAT?"
She can speak, Pink said quietly. She has her tongue.
"She's not the one." Suraya's heart sank. "She's not the one
we're looking for."
The little girl glared up at her. "Then why you wake me UP?"
Without another word, she flounced off and sank back into the earth
where she'd emerged from.
"That went well," Hussein said, smiling brightly. "Next one?"
They tried them all, one after the other: Intan, aged four. Ahmad,
aged two. They tried Khairul, aged six, hidden in a shadowy corner
Hussein had forgotten about.They even tried Melati, aged eight, and
Mariam, aged twelve, who rolled her eyes impressively when asked
about her tongue and stuck it out to show them before disappearing
(although not before telling Jing "Your glasses are dorky.")
"This is hopeless," Jing said crossly, pushing her glasses more
firmly up her nose. "And my glasses ARE NOT DORKY," she added,
yelling at the ground for good measure, as if Mariam could hear her.
"What do we do now, Pink?" Suraya asked quietly.
I . . . I do not know.
"What happened to the wisdom of the ages, huh?" She tried to
laugh, but it came out limp and weak, and Pink didn't even smile in
response.
Behind them, Jing was still casting dark looks at the spot where
Mariam had been. "What does she know, anyway," she muttered.
"You'll have to forgive Mariam," Hussein said cheerily. "She's
always grumpy. Doesn't get many visitors, you know. The family was
living here when she died, but then everyone moved away. Too
many painful memories and all that. They only come to visit every
few months or so. Tough when you don't live where your dear ones
lay buried. . . ."
"That's it," Suraya said suddenly.
Everyone turned to look at her.
"Where you die isn't necessarily where you lived," she said. "The
witch—my grandmother—you said she moved a lot, right? We just
need to figure out where she lived before."
"That's well and good, but how are we going to do that?" Jing
gestured to her still-pinging phone. "We haven't exactly got a ton of
time. And it's starting to get dark."
Suraya felt her spirits dip as low as the sun in the sky.