Ghost Letters (9 page)

It looks as if there might be a war between Ajeebgarh and the British, who are camped on the outskirts of the city. We can hear them firing their cannons and they are threatening to invade.

You mentioned something called television and computers. I wonder what these things are. Is it like the telegraph, which just came to Ajeebgarh last year?

This time, when I throw the bottle in the river, I'm going to wait and see how long it takes to come back.

Your friend,

Sikander

Hi Sikander,

Your answer arrived right after I wrote to you. Ten minutes ago I tossed this bottle back into the sea. After that I was sitting in the sun, watching a lobsterman checking his traps offshore. Then, just as I was going
to head home, the blue bottle popped out of the waves and washed right up to my feet. I guess it must be magic, or some kind of scientific phenomenon that hasn't been discovered yet.

I hope the war doesn't happen. What are you going to do? Why are the British planning to attack Ajeebgarh?

You asked about computers and television. These are machines with screens on which words and pictures travel instantly from one place to another, sort of like this bottle but much more complicated. It's hard to explain because I guess you don't have electricity either.

I have to get home before my grandfather thinks I'm lost, but I'll come here again tomorrow morning to get your reply.

Gil

Dear Gil,

This will have to be a very short note because I must get to work. I'm apprenticed to a calligrapher, who has to write an official proclamation from the maharajah to the
British, asking them to withdraw their troops. If this war happens it will be terrible. It's the stupidest conflict—all because of a postage stamp. The British don't want the maharajah putting his picture on the stamp. They only want the Queen of England, but of course that's just an excuse. I'll write again soon.

Sikander

Hey Sikander,

I hope the British haven't attacked. It does seem pretty dumb to start a war because of a stamp, but I guess a lot of wars have occurred for no reason at all.

Are you working full-time or do you also go to school?

I showed my friend Nargis the last few messages you've sent and she wants to know if your mother cooks bhindi. (I don't know what that is, but she says you'll know.) Nargis wants to write something, so I'll stop …

Hi Sikander,

This is Nargis. It's pretty cool that we can write to you like this, but I wish we could help you find your friend. Though my parents come from India, I've been there only once. Just to Delhi where my aunt lives. Maybe next time I go, I'll visit Ajeebgarh. But of course, you won't be there. That seems kind of weird.

Just writing this note, I'm getting creeped out. Hope you're safe, with all of the war and stuff.

Nargis

Dear Gil and Nargis,

Thanks for writing. I was feeling very depressed today because my father, who is one of the maharajah's bodyguards, has been posted to the palace barracks, which means the fighting is going to start soon. We don't know when it will begin, but all of the foreigners who live in Ajeebgarh are leaving, including Lawrence's parents. There doesn't seem to be any chance that he is still alive.

Even though I sometimes feel hopeless, your letter cheered me up. Of course I know what bhindi is. My mother cooks it sometimes, though it's not my favorite vegetable. Too slimy. I wish both of you could visit Ajeebgarh—maybe not now, but at some other time (maybe in the future, when all of the fighting is over). Sometimes it's so confusing. For you, all of this is history. You can probably read about it in a book. For me, it's happening right now, today and tomorrow.

Please keep writing. My mother doesn't want me to leave the house, but I sneaked out to the river today because I had to see if the bottle was there with your reply.

Best wishes,

Sikander

Upstairs, at the end of the hall, beyond Gil's room, lay a small study. It was no more than eight feet square, with a single window overlooking the sea. His grandfather's office was downstairs—a large, untidy room full of books and papers. The upstairs study was completely different and felt almost empty, except for an old-fashioned, rolltop writing desk and a padded chair with rickety arms. On the floor lay a faded carpet, and against one wall stood a bookcase that was mostly empty. Only one framed picture hung in the study, an old etching of a battle scene, with soldiers and cannons. Gil didn't pay much attention to it.

He was still puzzled by the disappearance of the hand, the strange messages in the bottle, and what Lenore had told him about his future. She and Prescott had driven up to Boston that morning to attend an art exhibit. Though Gil had been invited, he had decided to stay home. Feeling bored and restless, he
needed something to do. Throwing himself into the study chair, Gil tried to lift the cover of the desk but it was locked. There were drawers on either side, and when he opened the first one, he saw a tarnished brass key tied to a piece of yellow yarn. When he tried it, the key clicked smoothly in the lock and the top of the writing desk rolled up and out of sight.

Inside the desk were dozens of pigeonholes, miniature drawers and slots. It reminded Gil of a dollhouse one of his cousins used to have. The surface of the desk was covered in green felt, which had ink stains on it and was coming loose at one corner. Everything was neatly arranged inside—a set of sharpened pencils lying in a shallow groove, a couple of erasers and a copper bowl full of paper clips and pins. On one side, he saw a tiny weighing scale and an ancient-looking stapler. Each of the pigeonholes had different objects tucked inside: a pair of scissors, a magnifying glass and tweezers. Another drawer was full of used stamps and clear envelopes that looked as if they were made of waxed paper.

Exploring the desk was like exploring a house within a house, with different levels and secret compartments. Most of the things Gil found were ordinary objects: a tube of glue, a ruler, unused envelopes. But there were also unusual things: a box full of folded bits of gummed paper and a letter opener shaped like a scimitar, with a bright-colored enamel handle. In one of the upper pigeonholes, he discovered a round glass paperweight, inside of which were swirls of orange and red that looked like flames.

The larger, lower drawers on either side of the desk were locked. Though Gil searched everywhere, he couldn't find the keys. He began to wonder whose desk this was. It couldn't have belonged to his grandmother. She and Prescott had been divorced for thirty years. Her home was in California, where she ran a strawberry farm. Maybe the desk had belonged to someone who had lived in the house before his grandfather inherited it, though some of the objects inside didn't look that old. The tube of glue was still soft, and the Magic Markers hadn't dried out. Though he knew his grandfather wouldn't care, Gil suddenly felt guilty exploring the desk, as if he were uncovering a secret identity, a mysterious presence in the house.

Moments later, he heard Kipling begin to bark downstairs. Leaving the desk, Gil went to see who it was. Kipling was standing in the main hallway, growling and snarling at the front door. There was a brass mail slot in the middle of the door, and just as Gil arrived, he saw it swing open as a letter slipped through and fell to the floor. Gil tried to make Kipling quiet down, but the dog kept barking loudly. Glancing out one of the side windows, Gil couldn't see any sign of the postman.

There was just one letter, and when he picked it up, the envelope felt heavier than he expected, the paper thick like a wedding invitation. It had an old-fashioned look about it, and there were foreign stamps, with the profile of a man in a turban. On the front was an address:

To Whom It May Concern

12 Sharia Ful Medames

Zamalek, Cairo

Egypt

This had been crossed out, and written beside it was “Please forward: P.O. Box 324, Carville, Massachusetts, USA.” Stamped over this in officious black ink was “Address Unknown.” There weren't any names at all, and there was no sender's address. The longer Gil held the letter, the heavier it seemed. When he flipped the envelope over, the flap was firmly glued and sealed with a circular glob of brittle red wax, at the center of which was the impression of an eight-pointed star. Though it didn't have the symbol of Mercury in the center, Gil recognized it immediately.

By this time, Kipling had quieted down, and Gil headed back upstairs to the rolltop desk. He felt an irresistible urge to open the envelope. The letter was obviously meant for someone else, yet the address was vague—“To Whom It May Concern.” That could be almost anyone. Thinking about this, Gil realized he was already picking at the wax seal with his fingernail, as if it were a scab. Wondering if there was any connection between the star on the seal and the carving in the basement made him want to open the letter all the more. His fingers seemed to itch, as if every nerve in his body was prodding him to tear the envelope open.

Holding the letter up to the light, Gil tried to see what
might be inside, but the paper was much too thick. By now the envelope felt uncomfortably heavy in his hand, as if it were filled with lead.

The miniature scimitar glinted in its pigeonhole and Gil hesitantly reached across for it, taking the letter opener between his thumb and forefinger. Unable to stop himself, he slid the point of the blade under the envelope's flap. With a sudden, involuntary motion, Gil sliced it open in a single stroke.

Ouch!” cries Lawrence as Tommy-two cuts off a piece of red hair with his sword.

“Hey! Stop complaining! 'Tisn't every day you get a free haircut, laddie,” says Tommy-one.

The deserters have taken their hostage to an abandoned dak bungalow in the hills above Ajeebgarh. Dak bungalows are rest houses located at regular stages along highways in India, though this one happens to be situated along a road that isn't used very often. It's a damp, ruined place with spiders in the rafters, lizards on the walls, mice in the floors and snakes in the drains. The Tommies have lighted a fire, over which they roast a pigeon that one of them shot with his musket. While the deserters eat the bird, Lawrence is given a couple of moldy biscuits to chew on for dinner. When Tommy-three tosses a drumstick on the ground, Lawrence notices a scroll of paper tied to it. Cautiously, he reaches out and removes it, reading
the words Sikander has written. For the first time since he's been kidnapped, Lawrence smiles.

After their meal, Tommy-one tries to write the ransom note in the firelight. He has a crumpled sheet of paper and the blunt stub of a blue pencil.

“Now, what did you say yer father's name was?” asks Tommy-one, squinting in the faint light.

“Mr. Roderick Sleeman, Esquire,” says Lawrence.

Tommy-one never went to school, and the letter takes about an hour to write:

By Her Majistee's Ov'rland Male

To: Mr. Rodrick Sleemin Esq.

From: Y' don't knead to kno

deer Sir,

Weev got yer son, Lawrnce. Send one thowsind roopees kash only (Rs. 1,000) to Peepulpatti Dak bunglo buy day aftir tumorrow, or else wee cut ofph his head. Don tell the powlice or miltry oficials. (Hare inclos'd as proof)

Thank'n yew sinceerlie yers kindly,

Nonymous

When the ransom note is finally written, it is folded up with the curls of red hair enclosed and stuffed into an old

envelope that originally contained a notice for the three Tommies' court-martial. Finding a candle stub in the dak bungalow, Tommy-one seals the envelope with melted wax.

Though most of the mail to Ajeebgarh arrives by train, letters from the hills are delivered by overland mail carried by relays of men on foot. The next morning, soon after dawn, Lawrence hears the ringing of a bell as one of the mail runners comes down the path toward the dak bungalow. At gunpoint, Tommy-one waylays the runner and hands over the ransom note for delivery. In his broken Urdu—which is even worse than his English—he tells the mail carrier to deliver the letter to Mr. Roderick Sleeman at the Upper Finch Tea Estate. The mail runner is so frightened, he nods when asked if he understands, though he hasn't been able to comprehend a single word Tommy-one says.

Even then, the ransom note might have reached its destination, but when the mail carrier descends to the foot of the mountains, an elephant steps out of the forest and charges him. The runner drops the mail and escapes. Picking up the bag of letters with its trunk, the elephant tosses it into the trees, where a troupe of monkeys tear it open and scatter the contents. The ransom note, which could have saved Lawrence's life, ends up at the top of a banyan tree.

If only it had reached Mr. Sleeman, he would have gladly paid a thousand rupees for the release of his son. Instead, the scribbled letter gets added to a magpie's nest, a crumpled wad of paper in which two eggs are laid and later hatched.

As for Lawrence, he tries to persuade the kidnappers to let
him go, but they just laugh at him. His hands and feet are kept tied most of the time, and whenever the ropes are removed, one of the Tommies stands guard with a musket. On the third night at the dak bungalow, Lawrence is finally able to loosen the knots on his wrists. While the three deserters are snoring loudly, he slowly works his hands free, then unties his feet. Moving as silently and stealthily as he can, Lawrence crawls toward the door. His captors are sound asleep, and the only light in the room comes from the moon, which shines through a crack in the window shutters.