The Hungry Ghosts

by Miguel Flores

  Hightop cowered and screamed and gnashed his teeth. His clothes were torn, his eyes mad, but the gripes and gobblers only made their circle around him smaller and smaller.

  “Stop!” Milly ran toward the wizard. The shadows fled away from every patch of grass her feet touched.

  Hightop turned his mad gaze and wand upon her. “You! This is all your fault!” He raised his wand. “I call upon all the powers of the North Wind to smite you!”

  But nothing happened.

  Not a breeze stirred the air. No crack of thunder replied.

  Milly’s anger returned. It burned white hot inside her, so much so that tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She heard Jasper’s voice whisper against her ear.

  “The winds are offering you their strength.”

  “What do they want me to do?”

  “Destroy him,” she heard something from the ground say.

  “Avenge us,” said another.

  Now the three winds stirred above her, and she heard their howling tempests echo from within her own heart.

  Milly’s insides felt like they might burst.

  “Stop trying to control everything!”

  She took one step forward.

  “Stop trying to tame the winds!”

  The inside of her hand burned like an iron.

  “Stop trying to use us!”

  “It’s all up to you now, witchling,” she heard Jasper say.

  “Milly, stop!” Cilla’s voice cut through all the noise.

  The vial in her tightening grip cracked open. It exploded in a flash of white light, causing the gripes and gobblers to flinch away. In that moment, all of Hightop’s memories knocked against Milly’s mind. They were begging to be let in, she realized, to show their true selves.

  And she had the power to choose whether they would be heard or not.

  Most of her didn’t want to hear them. Most of her wanted to shut them out, to banish them from the world, to let Hightop be blown into the sea along with the world he had created.

  But then another voice, a quieter one, spoke. And she realized it sounded very much like herself.

  “Be kind,” it whispered, “and do no harm.”

  She opened her hand and allowed the memories in.

  Hightop’s memories scurried around every corner of Milly’s mind. In one of them, Hightop stood among the council, turning his eyes away when the gnomes banished his own mother from the room and tore the banners from the walls. In another, he snuck into Edaline’s room while she was sleeping and stole away the Summoning Book, which he had coveted ever since he arrived at St. George’s. He rode high into the eye of a storm, his whole body shaking, as he attempted to chain the North Wind.

  Most of them felt loud and abrasive, but only a few of them were truly angry. In most of them he seemed . . . lost. Sad. Afraid.

  Finally, only one memory remained. This one was quiet and small. So small that Milly could only find it after all the others had gone, so quiet that Milly had to coax it out.

  It needed her permission to speak.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  the lost boy

  A young boy sat on the floor of his house reading The Marvelous Adventures of Tom Fool. In the other room, his mother conversed with a customer who was dealing with some sort of sickness called “giant’s foot.” Suddenly, someone’s entire hand covered his face.

  “Gurrs who!”

  “Corrine,” he laughed. “Knock it off!”

  The hand vanished from the boy’s eyes, and he looked up to see his giant friend smiling down at him.

  “Wurna play?”

  “Sure,” he said, and scrambled up. The two of them ran out the back of the house and headed toward their secret hideout, a grove hidden in the nearby trees.

  For most of the afternoon, they built a well together. The giant hauled large stones to the center, and Hightop plastered mud against the sides. All the while they shared tall tales and dreams and aspirations.

  They did this until the sun had dipped below the tree line and their arms had grown weary. Looking at their work in progress, they nodded at each other in approval and began walking back toward the city.

  They were just in front of the house when Hightop heard the voice.

  “Hey there, big toes!”

  Corrine immediately grabbed Hightop’s hand, and she tried to pull the boy along. But Hightop stopped. He couldn’t help it.

  “Big toes! Turn around when we’re talking to you!”

  Hightop turned and saw the source of the shrill voice cutting through his ears. It came from another boy, Trevor, standing among a group of other kids from the city.

  Hightop tore his hand from the giant and formed his hands around his mouth so he could shout louder. “Go away!”

  Trevor’s eyes shone with recognition, and his smile turned into a sneer. “Guys, it’s our lucky day. Looks like witchboy is hanging out with the big toes again.”

  Hightop gritted his teeth. He hated that name. Hated it so much. “Go away!” he said again. “Go find something better to do!”

  “Why? It’s true, isn’t it? Your mom’s a witch.” The kids now circled around them, and Trevor poked a finger into Hightop’s chest. “That makes you one, too.”

  Corrine tried to pull at Hightop’s arm, but Hightop just ground his teeth harder. “I told you to go away.” He put his hands up.

  “Oh no.” Trevor laughed. “Are you going to hex me?”

  One of the other kids smirked. “I heard witches like to tear your skin off and eat your fingers.”

  “Yeah,” said another kid. “They grind your bones into dust and turn you into soup.”

  “Sometimes at night, they’ll turn into bats and haunt the village.”

  “That’s not true,” Hightop protested. “None of that is true!”

  “How would you know?” Trevor grabbed one of Hightop’s hands and twisted it, revealing a black mark on his forearm. “You could only know this because you’re a scrawny little witchboy.”

  “Stuhppit!” Corrine cried.

  Tears filled Hightop’s eyes, and he felt the back of his hand burn with a power he’d never felt before. He tore his hand away, and the mark burned with a bright light.

  Suddenly, the kids around him were scared. They backed up as the light burned harsher.

  Hightop knew he could summon magicks to do his bidding. Maybe he’d ask fire to come and light up Trevor’s stupid hair. Maybe he’d get the earth to swallow him up. Maybe he’d control Trevor’s own fist and use it against him. Instead, Hightop closed his fist and punched Trevor, knocking him into the dirt.

  “I’m not a witch,” Hightop growled. “I’m nothing like my mom.”

  “Okay, okay,” the bully mumbled from the dirt. “I believe you.”

  The kids scattered and Hightop let out a long exhale. That power. That control. It felt kind of good. When he turned, he saw that Corrine had withdrawn from him, fear in her eyes. And, just past her, both of their mothers were watching from the open door of the house.

  The giant’s mother ran up, worried and then flustered when she saw the dust on Corrine’s fingers and the mud on Hightop’s hands. She told Corrine off about running away without a word and getting back so late.

  Hightop’s mother approached slowly, and Hightop could tell that even though her voice was kind, her eyes shone with a deep sadness.

  Hightop stared into his mother’s gray eyes. He knew he should feel bad, that he should apologize for what he’d done. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t feel bad for hurting Trevor.

  He wished he had hurt him more.

  He just wished his mother hadn’t seen it. He wished he could make his mother forget what happened.

  Hightop blinked, and the memory was over.

  * * *

  Suddenly, M
illy understood the wizard’s deep shame. The guilt which lay at the core of his being. His desire to choose who he could be. She saw not a man, but a little boy watching the wizards drive his mother from her home. She saw him regret doing the same.

  When the light from the vial vanished, Milly found Hightop curled against the tree. Clutching his body. Wand broken on the ground.

  Hightop was crying.

  “Mother,” he choked between tears. “What have I done?”

  Milly lowered her still-throbbing hand. The red moon cut through the blackness like a hot knife. Seeing the wizard at her feet, she no longer felt anger. No need for vengeance.

  The storm inside of her quieted, and she unclenched her fist. How could she destroy the boy whose mind she’d been inside?

  All Milly could feel was pity. She cried with him.

  AN OUTRODUCTION

  a south wind, who wants for everything

  When I saw her cry, I was surprised.

  No, not surprised. That’s not nearly strong enough.

  I was confused. Flabbergasted. Shocked. Upset. Stupefied.

  I was angry.

  This is where I wanted to step out of the story and grab our hero by her shoulders. I wanted to scream at her, demand to know why she wasn’t being a hero.

  This is not what the heroes do. Heroes fight, dominate, overpower. They beat back cruelty with a hammer. This is how they win.

  But she hadn’t done any of that.

  Instead, she decided to be human. Only you humans are capable of showing this kind of mercy. I wish I understood, but I don’t. I can’t.

  I don’t understand Milly. She continues to be a problem I cannot solve. I wrote this story to figure her out, and I am afraid to say I leave all the more confused.

  Up until now, most of these little asides and footnotes and unnecessary commentaries have been written by my secretary. I had no problem with them doing so as long as it kept them amused and away from the rest of my work. I am, after all, prone to hyperbole, and I do enjoy the crisp snap of a half-truth or two.

  For this, however, I make an exception.

  Have you figured it out, dear reader mine?

  Do you know who I am?

  I didn’t want to do this.

  I didn’t want to say.

  But we can’t all have what we want; you deserve to know.

  Sit down, child. Calm your beating heart. I have one last story to tell.

  * * *

  There once was a little disc on the edge of the stars, spinning their way through stories without a worry or want in the universe. Their name was Arrett.

  Arrett was a happy world. They kept their heart on their sleeve and sang without shame and cried without guilt. They hungrily ate up the words of their older siblings and pocketed them inside mountains and buried them along streams.

  One day, they met and fell in love with the South Wind.

  But both were young and did not know what love meant. The South Wind thought to love was to wreck, and so wreck he did. He blew through gardens and uprooted flowers. He carved scars through hills and yanked fish out of the sea for fun. He upturned all pages of narration and left third acts in half-written chapters. He wanted to belong to Arrett, but he didn’t want to be tamed.

  So he stole Arrett’s heart and scattered its magicks all across the world.

  The South Wind enjoyed it when the inhabitants caused trouble, but he underestimated how much trouble they’d cause. This wind spread rumors on his currents of how witches were ugly and giants were cruel. For all words are made of magicks—even something as petty as a rumor. Soon, these new magicks ran rampant, causing even more damage and terror than the South Wind ever dreamed of.

  He could have done something. He probably should have. But instead, he stayed back and silent, and let Arrett deal with it all on their own.

  You know some of the rest already. Of the small giant Ovid who chained down the Wind, but he did not do this with a rope at the end of the world. He forced this wily wind into a much more secure prison. He fashioned this wind a body, he gave this wind a name, and then he handed this wind a pen and told him to tell a story.

  So here I sit, watching as my siblings and a little witch girl heal the hurt I have caused. Here I sit, pen in hand, watching this girl fix the mess I made.

  Hightop is a product of the world he was born into. The gripes and gobblers are the circumstance of what happens when we shove our feelings down our own throats, refuse to see things as they truly are. My situation was created from my own selfish desires to control. To wreck.

  In many ways, you might call me the villain of this story. Perhaps you’re right. I obviously can’t tell the difference anymore.

  I used to think Milly was the true troublemaker. She’s broken my story into pieces now, all in some misguided need to feel compassion for a wizard and save her sister.

  I don’t know. Maybe I had it all backward.

  I don’t think I understand, but I dreadfully want to.

  Is that too much to ask?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  sometimes all you need is a very good cry

  Milly looked up to the sky as the winds descended to the cliff and manifested themselves into three shapes.

  The North Wind shaped himself into a bull, muscles rippling in constant movement as currents of cold drafts and streams of dark clouds. The East Wind took upon their form as a whale with a mighty sail for a tail and steam blowing out the top of their head. Lastly, the West Wind unfolded her paper self. The more layers she unfolded, the larger she grew, until she was a full-sized sapphire-eyed dragon with a red tongue and yellow claws.

  Lastly, a fourth wind joined them: Jasper, who billowed his winds out and shrunk them back in, curled them into sleek, black fur and stretched out his currents until they were paws. Here he was, the new South Wind, her friend.

  The four of them stood before Milly in the dark, and she stared back at them, the moon on her hand now their only source of light.

  Cilla and Ash joined her by the tree, opposite from where Hightop lay. They were terrified. They begged Milly to run.

  She raised her hand toward the winds. “If . . . if it’s okay, I’d like to ask for your help with one last thing.”

  The North Wind billowed. “I’ve just found my freedom. I’m not going to give it up for you.”

  “Easy, brother,” the East Wind said. “You haven’t even heard what the little witch girl wants.”

  The West Wind stared at Milly with unblinking eyes.

  Jasper drifted down from the others and hovered in front of Milly. “You freed us, witch, but I don’t recommend attempting to tame four winds. Are you sure you want to go around asking for more favors?” Jasper’s voice sounded grave, but he laughed and winked.

  “I want everyone to remember. I want us all to know the names of our ghosts. Our in-betweens. Our shadows.” She looked down at the earth and saw a gripe looking back at her with a curious head tilt. She breathed. “But I don’t have the power to do that alone.”

  Milly looked up at the three of them, all now sitting in silence. “I need your help,” she said, and bowed her head. “Please.”*

  Both the North and the East Wind looked toward the West Wind. She nodded toward the newest member. “I think we should let our little brother decide what we must do.”

  “You mean it’s up to me?!” Jasper gasped, then snorted. He turned to Milly. “Of course we’ll help you!”

  The West Wind laughed and folded herself back into a tiny blue girl. She pulled Milly to herself in a tight embrace.

  “See? You needed only to ask.”

  Without another word, she turned to the other winds and the three of them shot up into the sky. Milly looked down at her hand. It glowed with a loud, warm light. The eye of a giant hurricane formed above the children, and the three wi
nds hooted and roared with excitement.

  Jasper winked once more, then turned into a wild gust and joined his siblings.

  Cilla grabbed Milly. Ash quivered in place. Poor Hightop shook violently beneath the tree.

  But Milly looked up, face to the wind, and laughed.

  The storm stretched across the cliffside and the skies opened. Rain splattered across the terrain, striking the gripes and gobblers on their faces. Forcing them to pull away.

  While Arrett cried their heart out, the memories of those lost pulled themselves out of the earth. Across West Ernost and Nignip, gnomes and giants and wizards and witches alike stepped out into the rain. Soon their tears rolled down and kissed the ground. The gripes and gobblers softly came out, revealing themselves. Memories all across West Ernost and Nignip and Delfin and more seeped back into people’s minds, as if the holes in their brains were being filled and made whole again.

  When it was over, Milly looked to the tree. The wizard had disappeared, but he’d left his broken wand behind. From Elma’s branches, a tiny flame flew toward it.

  A little green bud sprouted from the wand’s splintered ends.

  Milly hoped that meant something.

  Suddenly, her eyes widened. She grabbed Cilla’s hand and bolted away from the tree, a singular thought echoing through her brain.

  They needed to tell Doris!

  * * *

  Milly found Doris in the doorway of St. George’s. Doris stared up at the sky with worry, her hair matted against the sides of her head.

  “Doris!” Milly and Cilla shouted. “Doris!”

  The old woman turned toward the girls, and her eyes lit up.

  “We’re back!” Milly crashed into Doris with a hug. “We’re home now!”

  Doris smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in years. She bent down and squeezed back and didn’t let go. When she spoke, there was no pause, no moment of uncertainty.