Ghost Boy

Wednesday, October 9th

Dear diary, I met someone new today. Someone very extraordinary.

“Tell us again, Ghost Boy. Why’s your hair white?”

“Yeah, Ghost Boy! What’s wrong with ya, huh?”

“And your eyes! What’s wrong with your eyes, freak?”

I heard the voices while I was walking up Perian Road, to the great big bridge over the river. I wanted to examine the bridge for any sign of trolls or other creatures that might be living underneath. I hadn’t thought I’d see anyone there, but I could hear yelling and jeering all the way from the bend in the road, behind the great spruce tree.

I started running and dodging between the trees just off the side of the road. I wanted to know what was happening, but I also wanted to stay hidden.

I reached the far corner of the bridge and ducked behind the old stone parapet, peering around to see who was doing all the yelling and so forth. But a new voice, panicked and shrill, drowned out the taunts.

“Let me go! P-please, I have to get home! Let me go—oh!”

The voices came from a group of boys near the bridge’s edge. They were standing menacingly over a single boy who was knocked to his knees by a blow to his stomach from one of the other boys.

“Shut up, freak!”

“Yeah, shut up! Or we’ll toss ya over into the Eyrie!”

The boys were yelling and jeering at the one who’d been struck. I could barely see him as he cowered on the ground, ducking his head and clutching his stomach. I caught a glimpse of his face, and saw tears streaming down his cheeks.

One of the boys laughed out loud. I glanced up at him, and saw that he had a terribly cruel look in his eyes.

“Heya, maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” the boy cackled. “I always wondered if ghosts could swim!”

“Yeah! How about it, Ghost Boy? Think you’ll float? Or sink?” The other boys laughed cruelly.

“No! P-please, I don’t know how to swim! Please, don’t! Don’t!” He cried as the two biggest boys grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him to the low wall at the edge of the bridge.

The awful boys cheered and shouted cruel things, and the terrified boy’s protests were lost in the noise.

That was enough. I quickly tore my backpack off my shoulders and dug through it furiously. Finding what I was looking for, I pulled out a small, opalescent horn that shimmered in the sunlight.

I glanced up at the one they called Ghost Boy as they dragged him to the edge of the bridge. He was fighting and struggling against their grip as hard as he could, but they wouldn’t let him go.

As fast as I could, I pressed the small horn to my lips, took as deep a breath as I could manage, and let out a blast that shook the trees. The roar resounded through the woods, filled the sky all the way to the clouds, and came bouncing back again. I felt it rattling my very bones.

The cacophony pounding the air around us, I looked up at the boys on the bridge. They had dropped the one as soon as the roar sounded, and they were all shaking with fear. Then one of them began to run screaming and crying away from the bridge, and all the rest followed, completely forgetting about the one they had nearly thrown into the river.

As the last of the awful ones disappeared around the bend, I stood up from behind the corner wall and ran to the boy they had dropped, the one they called Ghost Boy. He had fallen to his knees and was huddled in a tight ball, his hands covering his head.

“By Faeren’s tail, are you alright?” I asked, kneeling down and putting a hand lightly on his shoulder so he would know that everything was alright now. He raised his head and looked at me, with fear misting his eyes.

Then I understood why they called him Ghost Boy.

A startling shock of white hair hung down in front of his face, nearly covering one of his eyes and stark in contrast with the rest of his hair, which was a dark, ruffled brown mop. And his eyes were two different colors; one a soft green, the other a brilliant blue.

Perhaps it was just the golden light of the sunset, or the echoes of the roar still reverberating through the wood, but everything about the boy seemed absolutely ethereal to me. Otherworldly, even. Never before had I seen anyone like him.

“Extraordinary,” I breathed, accidentally loud enough for him to hear. He looked startled.

“W-what?” He stammered.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Did they hurt you? Are you alright?”

Still shaken, he tried to sit up straight, but winced and hissed sharply through his teeth.

“Mostly. Just bruised ribs, is all. I’m fine.” He mumbled. I noticed he wouldn’t look me in the eye, and I wondered if he was one of those boys who didn’t like to be helped by a girl.

“I’m Dani,” I said hopefully, sticking out my hand. If he would only keep talking, it wouldn’t take me long to get an idea of what sort of person he was.

Finally he looked me in the eye, though hesitantly, and took my hand.

“I’m . . . I’m August,” he replied.

I stood up slowly and helped him up with me. I was just about to ask where he was headed and if I might be able to walk with him, when he jumped like a startled deer and quavered, “Wait! W-what on earth was that awful roar? Where did it come from?”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, dropping my backpack on the ground to dig through it again. I pulled out the small, shimmering horn and held it out to him. “It was only this.”

He gently took the horn from my hand and looked at me with great confusion.

“This? But—but it sounded like a terrible beast! How could—” He stopped, turning the horn over in his hand in puzzlement.

“Well, it is a great secret, but I suppose I could tell you, if you wanted,” I offered. “It’s kind of a long secret, too.” His eyes, which had been studying the horn with curiosity and wonderment, suddenly looked away.

“Oh, well, I really have to be going—I’m supposed to be home by now. My parents are expecting me,” he said as he handed the horn back to me, his voice getting quieter and sadder with every word. Once again, he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“Oh, that’s alright; I can tell you another time,” I said cheerfully. “Perhaps I’ll see you here again some day?”

“Well, I have school until 4:00, but I walk this bridge almost every day,” he said as he started walking away. “Perhaps I’ll see you then.”

“Alright!” He was on the far end of the bridge now. “Goodbye, August!” I called.

“Goodbye,” he called back.

I didn’t see August the next day; I waited on the bridge for what must have been hours. I had brought the horn with me to show him, but he never came.

I was worried. I wondered if perhaps those cruel boys from the day before had ambushed him somewhere on the road—but I hadn’t seen any of them cross the bridge.

So all the greater was my relief when I saw him turn the corner at the great spruce, walking towards the bridge the next day.

“Hello!” I called out as he came closer.

He looked up, and I saw that his eyes were ringed with dark circles, almost like he’d been struck.

“Hello,” he muttered weakly.

I felt a shudder in my chest as he glanced up at my eyes. He looked . . . centuries old.

Thursday, November 21st

Dear diary,

August and I have become good friends. The children at school are terrible to him, so I have been sent to the principal’s office on more than one occasion for knocking a few awful boys to the ground for him. Mrs. Whitwick is not pleased, but Mum and Dad are not pleased with Mrs. Whitwick for allowing the bullies to get away with being so horrid to my friend.

So I would say everything’s okay.

I don’t mind knocking a few of those boys down, anyways. They’re always the ones to start it, using August as a punching bag and calling him awful things. But since none of the teachers nor Mrs. Whitwick ever do anything about it, I’m not going to stop defending my friend. I think it’s high time someone stood up for him.

I do think it rather odd, though, that August’s parents haven’t got anything to say about their son being so terribly bullied . . . I haven’t ever seen them waging war with the principal on August’s behalf the way my parents do. In fact, I haven’t ever seen them at all.

It’s all very strange . . .

“Is your name really Dani?”

August threw a small stick into the icy river below us and watched as it was carried swiftly away.

Before I could answer, he glanced at me apologetically. “I don’t mean to be rude; I’ve just never met a girl with a name like Dani.”

“It’s alright; it is an unusual name,” I said. “It’s short for Daniella. Daniella Everyn Damson. But Daniella is quite long and hard to say quickly. I like Dani.”

August nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving the river. “I understand that,” he said. “My name is actually short for something.”

“It is?” I asked, not knowing how 'August' could be short for anything.

He sighed a little. “Augustus Willow Huckabee is my full name.”

I gasped in complete awe. “But that’s an extraordinary name!”

“And aren’t I already extraordinary enough?”

He threw another stick into the river, his voice edged with something like bitterness.

I didn’t say anything, just looked at him mournfully. He glanced at me, and I saw the bitterness fade from his eyes, giving way to resignation.

“It’s called poliosis,” he said as he tossed a small pebble over the bridge. “Poliosis and heterochromia. I’m an all-around mistake.” He suddenly sounded as if he were going to cry.

“August! There’s nothing wrong with you, not at all!”

“You’ve seen them, Dani! I know you have!” He cried suddenly, turning to me with tears in his eyes. “They don’t see me unless they want to hurt me! You’ve heard them . . . you’ve heard what they call me.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes.

“August, I—”

“And what if they’re right, Dani? What if I am a ghost?” His voice was shrill with despair. “What if I am? They don’t see me, they don’t hear me, unless they want to hurt me. They don’t care, they just leave me; even when I’m right in front of them they don’t see me . . . I’m a ghost, Dani! I’m a ghost, and nobody knows, they just leave me, they never see me, never—”

“August!” I cried. I put my hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. He stared back, with a kind of fear and pain I had never seen before. I pulled him to me and hugged him tightly.

“You’re not a ghost, August,” I said softly, tears running down my face. “I see you.” He sobbed into my shoulder.

“But . . . but my parents. . . they don’t.”