by H. S. Norup
“You should call her ‘auntie’. Ah Ma, I mean,” Jason says, as he leads me into the house, which is filled with gleaming dark furniture. Red fabric hangings with golden Chinese letters and shiny golden fringes decorate the walls. “It’s a sign of respect towards elders here. You call them ‘uncle’ or ‘auntie’.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, realizing that the woman from Dad’s office wasn’t related to the taxi driver.
“I’m telling you, because I know you don’t know anything.”
“I might not know anything about ghosts,” I say.
A telly in the corner blares out incomprehensible shouts and background laughter.
“Since you know ab-so-lute-ly everything,” I say, without hiding the sarcasm. “Can you tell me about those vampire ghosts?”
“Pontianaks? Why d’you wanna hear about them? They’re the scariest, most horrible…” Jason pulls his shoulders up to his ears and shudders theatrically. “They have knife-sharp nails that they use to slice up a man’s stomach before they eat his organs.”
“Eek! Why would they do that?”
“Revenge! They’re supposed to have died while they were pregnant or giving birth or something like that.”
“So, you don’t know?” I say it to tease him, but Jason pushes his long fringe to the side and glares at me.
We stand across from each other behind the couch. At howling laughter from the telly, Jason turns to face the screen. After a long pause where I’m trying to read the English subtitles, I say, “You can watch your show, if you want.”
Just then, Mrs Lim comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Today, she doesn’t look the least bit scary.
“Wah!” she says, clapping a hand over her mouth, when she sees me. “How come she so tall?” she asks Jason, as if I can’t understand her, and as if I’m a giant, though I’m only half a head taller than him.
We both shrug.
“Off the TV, boy.” She picks up the tea towel and tells us to come and eat, mumbling about me being too thin.
“Maybe she eat already,” Jason calls after her. “I don’t think you’ll like the food,” he says to me.
“Why? Is it spicy?”
“Nah.” His cheeks colour.
“Is it something exotic like tarantulas or crickets?” I ask. “That’d be brilliant.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “No, that’s what you get in Cambodia or Laos.” He lowers his voice to a mutter. “It’s frog porridge.”
“Frog? I’ve always wanted to taste frog. D’you think I can help her prepare them?”
“She’s already done that,” he says with a sigh and opens the door to the kitchen.
While Mrs Lim sets the table, Jason says, “Ah Ma, Freja was running after a girl up to Bukit Brown the other day.”
“Hmm…” She places one bowl with frog pieces and spring onion in a thick, dark-brown sauce and another with white porridge on the table, before she sits down.
I’m struggling to lift a sticky piece of frog with the chopsticks, until Jason picks one up with his fingers. At least there’s a spoon for the porridge.
We eat in silence for a while. The frog legs are delicious and taste almost like chicken drumsticks. I’m wondering if I might sneak a couple of the bones into my pocket. Perhaps I can sharpen them with my knife and make them into needles or something.
“What this girl look like?” Mrs Lim asks.
“I think she’s Chinese. Long black hair. And she’s quite tall, actually, and thin.”
“Thin girl with long, long neck?”
“Yes, auntie.” Ling’s neck is absurdly long.
“A child, is it?”
I nod, licking sauce off my fingers.
“Aiyoh! This one a very hungry ghost. Must remember ancestors and better make offerings.” Mrs Lim shakes her head slowly. “Child spirit more difficult than adult one, because it never have time to enjoy life before dying.”
“I don’t understand… We don’t have any ancestors here in Singapore. If she really is a ghost, then she must be someone else’s hungry ghost.”
“Mmm… Can be wandering ghost, but I never see this girl before.”
“When I was following her, she led me to a gravestone…” I want to tell them about the Morse message, but my voice falters at Mrs Lim’s shocked expression.
She raises one crooked, shaking forefinger, waving it at me. “Cannot! Don’t anyhow follow ghosts.”
I shudder. Sitting here, listening to Jason’s ah ma talk about hungry ghosts as if they’re real, it’s difficult to doubt they exist. I have a creepy feeling that spirits surround me, wanting to be remembered. Suddenly, I don’t want to hear another word about ghosts.
“Is that an eye?” I ask, pointing at a pearl-like glob in my bowl.
“Yeah, sorry. I hate those,” Jason mumbles.
I pick the pearl up with thumb and forefinger and bring the small eyeball up for close inspection. “Can I eat it?”
“Ugh, gross.”
Mrs Lim chuckles and tells me eating frog eyes is supposed to strengthen your bones and improve your eyesight. When Jason looks away, I pop the eyeball into my mouth and swallow.
“Come. I show you offering,” she says after we’ve eaten.
The rain has stopped. Outside, by the gate, Mrs Lim lights joss sticks, and hands me and Jason each a stack of paper money with colourful birds on one side. On the other side is a grey sketch of a temple. Above the amount is printed: Hell Bank Note. Before we light them, she explains that the smoke from burnt banknotes and other paper effigies is nectar for the spirits. It will feed them, so they are comfortable until next year.
“Isn’t it a bit… morbid to spend so much time and energy on dead people?”
Mrs Lim takes my hand in both of hers. “Loss and grief is part of life,” she says quietly. “We cannot forget the dead.”
—14—
In the evening, after the twins are asleep, I’m sitting in the lounge, waiting for Dad to finish a phone call. Maya is tidying, putting wooden toys into a wicker basket. Clementine asks her to move a big vase with red exotic flowers.
“Didn’t I tell you we can’t have red colour in the north-west corner?” she says, “It’s bad chi.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maya moves the vase to the opposite corner of the room, by the kitchen door. “Is this good for feng shui, ma’am?”
“Yes, that’s better. Anything red in this corner of the house might result in memory loss.” Clementine flops down on one of the white sofas and starts telling me about feng shui and energy flows and the balance between yin and yang.
“It’s so interesting,” she says, “my feng shui consultant told me how Singapore’s city planning is done to optimize the flow of chi, of energy.”
I’m trying to hear if Dad has stopped talking on the phone, while Clementine drones on.
“Feng shui symbols are everywhere. Dragons in the east at the mouth of the river. The sports hub is in the shape of the black tortoise. The white tiger symbolized by Kent Ridge in the west. The vermillion bird of the south… Oh, I’ve forgotten what she said about the vermillion bird.”
Dad’s still on the phone, so I yawn and say I’m tired.
“Before you go… Your daddy told me you’d been up at Bukit Brown Cemetery.”
“Mmm hmm…”
“The thing is, Freja, it’s not a safe place to play. One of my friends saw a spitting cobra up there, and the ground is bound to be unstable, with all those hidden graves, and this time of year… So, you shouldn’t run wild up there on your own.”
“It’s just nature,” I say, while getting up. I’ll talk to Dad about it in the morning—she can’t decide what I do and where I go.
In my room, I sit by the open window. The cloudy sky is a muddy
orange tonight. It’s impossible to find even one bright star. I miss Mum. Last summer in Sweden, I didn’t talk to her the whole week. Now, it’s not yet been five days, but it feels longer. I also miss Dad. He’s working so much, it’s like he isn’t here.
Before I go to bed, I scan the garden, but I can’t see Ling.
On my phone, I read about hungry ghosts. Right now, according to the Chinese calendar, the gates to the realm of the dead are open, and the ghosts are on holiday in the real world. The streets are swarming with spirits, so it’s a bit strange that Ling is the only one I’ve seen. But perhaps I’ve attracted her by breaking one of the many taboos. Going swimming, wearing red and stepping in offerings are on the list of things to avoid during the seventh month. Nowhere does it say what you should do if a ghost needs your help.
When I’m almost dozing off, I wake with a jolt. In the silence, the stairs creak. I’m by the window, in an instant. Ling’s standing under the palm tree, at the back of the lawn. Dad’s walking towards her. Tonight, I don’t waste time opening the window but run downstairs and outside.
When she sees me, Ling moves swiftly around Dad towards the gate to the street. Without noticing her, Dad continues on his path away from the house. By the parked car, she turns and waves for me to follow.
Damp grass tickles my toes, as I walk around the pool.
“Ling,” I whisper, when I’m next to the car.
She’s waiting outside the gate. She must’ve slid right through the bars. I think she’s smiling. Her neck’s even longer than I remembered. On her head, like a crown, is the garland of creepers I left on the gravestone. I recognize my sloppy splice of the ends. The plants should’ve been soaked by the rain. Instead, they seem fresher than when I made the yellow daisy chain.
That little detail—in combination with everything I’ve seen and heard and read—finally removes the last shred of doubt. There is no other explanation. Ling must be a ghost. A hungry ghost.
“I can’t come with you now,” I say. It’s not that I’m scared, no matter what Jason’s ah ma said, but I don’t have any survival equipment on me, and I’m not even wearing flip-flops.
Ling’s smile vanishes and a tear rolls down her cheek.
“Don’t cry.”
I glance back over my shoulder. Dad’s right by the pool, walking towards us. He’s looking straight at me, but it’s as if he doesn’t see me.
“I’ll come to the graveyard tomorrow,” I whisper. “I promise, I’ll help you.”
She turns and ducks out of sight behind the hedge.
Dad stops next to me, staring at the spot where Ling stood a moment ago. Then he turns round, his eyes passing over me, and walks back into the garden.
“Dad,” I call. When he doesn’t react, I run in front of him.
But it’s like I’m behind a mirrored window. It happened once in the airport—I was waving at him and calling his name, but it was as if I was invisible. Only, this is worse, because there’s no glass and he still can’t see me. It’s as if I don’t exist. As if I’m not real.
“Dad.” I tug at his arm. And then, like he’s waking up, he blinks a couple of times and takes in the night-dark garden. He frowns at his watch.
It’s almost one o’clock.
“I must’ve been sleepwalking.” He rubs his eyes. “What a peculiar dream…”
“Did you see Ling?”
“Who?”
“The girl I told you about. She was here a moment ago.”
“Please, Freja… Not again.”
While we’re walking back into the house, I keep glancing at Dad. The fruity scent from the trees with white-yellow artificial-looking flowers is strong. Frangipani, Clementine called them. It sounds like an Italian dessert, and right now they smell like overripe peaches.
I don’t know what to say. Was he really sleepwalking?
At the top of the stairs, Dad gives me a half-hug. Before I slip back into my room, he whispers, “Best not say anything about this to Clementine. I don’t want her to worry.”
I lie awake afterwards, wondering what he doesn’t want Clementine to worry about: his sleepwalking or the fact that their garden is haunted by a ghost.
After closing my eyes, I remember the uncanny sensation I had of ghosts surrounding me, when Jason’s ah ma told me not to forget the dead. She said child spirits were more difficult because they hadn’t had time to enjoy life. It makes me even more determined to help Ling.
—15—
On Saturday morning, Clementine wakes me at eight.
“You need to get over your jet lag before school on Monday,” she says from the open door, holding the twins back. “Fa-mi-ly time,” she sings, like a cheerleader in an American film.
Downstairs, I ask if we can go on the TreeTop Walk. I’ve seen photos of the suspension bridge between the treetops on the internet. In one of them, a row of monkeys is sitting on the handrail. The hike to the bridge is along a trail through a nature reserve. But Clementine says the trail’s too bumpy and the boardwalk has too many stairs for the twin’s pushchair.
“How about a trip to the zoo?” she asks. “You three little monkeys can meet some real monkeys. Wouldn’t that be fun, Freja?”
I nod and try to ignore that she treats me as if I’m five years old.
The visit to the zoo is kind of nice. After we have breakfast with the orangutangs—literally sitting down with them on the terrace railing by our table—I see white tigers for the first time. Their eyes are the palest blue, like the sea in Denmark on a winter morning. Dad goes with me into the reptile zone, where I hold a live python, while Clementine and the twins stay outside. All morning, he hardly looks at his phone.
In the afternoon, Dad heads to his office in the city. He has to pick up a folder. On a Saturday! But I’m glad, because even though I want to show him the graveyard, today I’d rather go alone, so I can find Ling or at least see if she’s answered my question.
I tell Clementine I’m going to prepare for school and relax in my bedroom.
“Don’t fall asleep and don’t forget we’re going out tonight,” she calls after me, with her gaze fixed on the stream of updates on her screen.
Standing on the ledge outside my window, I throw my green climbing rope over a wooden roof beam above. Then I balance on my toes and tie a bowline knot.
From her perch on the inside of the glass, Lizzie blinks at me. Her little head veers from side to side, as if she doesn’t understand why I can’t run down the wall like a lizard.
After tying double overhand stopper knots at regular intervals, I wind the rope up and let it hang, shielded by the tree’s leaves. I hope no one sees it and thinks it’s a green viper.
The mud-splattered combat trousers I left on my bathroom floor after my last trip to Bukit Brown have been washed and folded and even ironed. I make a mental note to thank Maya and tell her she shouldn’t waste her time ironing my clothes. Within minutes they’ll be wrinkled, anyway.
Before I unfurl the rope and climb out the window, I fill my pockets with my survival equipment and two granola bars. On the ground, I tie the rope to a branch, so it’s hidden. On Thursday, I stashed the stick, the root-rope and my muddy hiking boots in the tree. The hiking boots are wedged in between low branches close to the trunk, and they’re sole-up so they won’t get wet inside if it rains. It’s a trick Dad taught me in Sweden. “Just check for snakes”, he usually teased, although the common viper is the only venomous snake in Scandinavia, and the weather was too cold for them. Here in Singapore, many snakes are venomous, so I shake the boots well before I put them on.
I slip out of the gate and backtrack to the sign I made on the trail next to the expressway. Despite the rain yesterday, it’s still there: five crumbled bricks stacked on top of a banana-palm leaf. This was where I emerged from the wilderness. All other signs of m
y last expedition have already been erased by the rainforest.
With my phone in one hand, I stomp north, banging the stick into the ground, watching the blue dot on my screen get closer and closer to the yellow star I used to mark the gravestone.
The nearer I get, the more anxious I become. What if Ling isn’t in the little grove? What if she hasn’t left a message, answering my Who are you question? What if she’s left one before it rained, and it’s washed away? What if CQD was just a random scatter of pebbles and sticks? Perhaps she never left me a message.
I try to prepare myself for disappointment.
But I’m not disappointed. A long line of pebbles and sticks lies on the flat stone. With one glance, it’s clear that it isn’t the pattern I made.
“Ling!” I call, although I already sense that she isn’t here. Sweltering heat, and noise from the cicada orchestra, close in on me. I don’t need to write anything down to read what it says, but I photograph and copy the Morse code into my notebook. She’s written:
I DO NOT REMEMBER
I wonder if that’s why she has latched on to me, because she can’t remember who her family is. Or were.
Not being able to remember must be awful. Perhaps she used to live in Dad’s house more than a hundred years ago, when ‘CQD’ was still in use. Perhaps that’s why she keeps coming back to the garden.
While I’m speculating, I collect pebbles and sticks, because I need more than the bits she’s used for my message.
I THINK YOUR NAME IS LING
I AM FREJA
HOW CAN I HELP YOU
It begins to rain, pouring from the first drops. I unwrap the granola bars and place them inside the wilted garland of creepers.
Within minutes my T-shirt’s soaked, but I’m not at all cold. Instead of heading back towards the expressway, I walk uphill in the other direction. When I catch a glimpse of white through the trees, I run after it, believing it’s Ling. But it’s just two blonde women in white summer dresses. They’re strolling along one of the asphalt pathways, under tiny umbrellas.