12
Rattle Beach
With all of the excitement of the skeletal hand, Gil had forgotten completely about the bottle he had thrown back into the sea. But now, as he tried to puzzle through everything that was taking place, he suddenly remembered the bright blue color of the glass, as if it had drifted into his memory again. After Nargis had gone home, Gil slipped out the kitchen door again and headed down the trail to Rattle Beach. By now the bottle was probably lying at the bottom of the Atlantic, or maybe it had washed on down the coast, but Gil felt an irresistible urge to find out if it was still there.
Sure enough, as soon as he scrambled down the rocks onto the shingle beach, he saw the blue shape bobbing in the water, ten feet from shore. The tide was in and the waves kept splashing up onto the rocks. Gil didn’t want to get wet, but he had no choice. He took off his shoes and socks, then rolled his jeans up to his knees.
When he stepped into the water, it felt as if his toes and ankles had been grabbed by claws of ice. The blue bottle rocking on the waves beckoned to him. Shivering with cold, he waded out into the surf, no longer caring if his jeans got wet. An incoming wave almost knocked him off his feet, which were completely numb by now. At the last minute he reached out and caught the bottle by its neck. Floundering back to shore, Gil rubbed his legs and feet until the circulation began to return, then put on his socks and shoes, even though he was soaking wet. He could see a message in the bottle and wanted to open it right there, but forced himself to wait until he got home to the Yankee Mahal.
Prescott was in the kitchen, opening a can of chicken stew for dinner.
“Where did you disappear to?” he asked as Gil came in.
“Nowhere. I just went down to the beach.”
Seeing how his jeans were wet, Prescott raised a questioning eyebrow but didn’t say any more as Gil headed upstairs. Once he was safely in his room, he uncorked the bottle and shook the message out onto the bed. He could see it wasn’t the same scrap of paper he had sent but a reply in a careful, deliberate hand from someone he’d never heard of before: Sikander Khan. Ajeebgarh. 5 November 1896.Yesterday. But 112 years ago!
Just then, he heard a knock at the door. Though Gil was able to hide the message in his pocket, the blue bottle stood on his bedside table when Prescott came in.
“Are you all right?” his grandfather asked.
“I’m fine,” Gil said.
“How’d you get wet?”
Gil looked around and saw the bottle. He shrugged, deciding there wasn’t any harm in telling half the truth.
“I found this down on Rattle Beach. It’s pretty cool.”
When he handed the bottle to his grandfather, Prescott held it up, admiring the color, then turned it toward the light, so he could read the molded lettering.
“A. K. Jaddoowalla’s Finest Indian Gripe Water.”
“What does that mean?” asked Gil.
“It’s a mild kind of medicine that’s given to young children who suffer from colic,” said Prescott. “I remember we used to give it to your mother when she was a baby.”
“Colic?” Gil asked.
“Stomach cramps. Nothing serious, but your mother would howl and cry a lot. Gripe water is made with anise, and it used to calm your mother down right away.”
“I guess I just like the color of the bottle,” said Gil. “It kind of has a glow about it.”
Gil nearly told his grandfather about the message he’d sent and the answer he’d got, but he decided to wait until he had more proof of what was going on.
Later that night, after dinner, he wrote a reply:
Gil Mendelson-Finch
The Yankee Mahal
Carville, MA 02453
Hi Sikander,
Writing a letter to somebody living over a hundred years ago seems kind of weird, but a lot of strange things have been happening to me. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
The truth is, I’m not really stranded on a desert island. (Sorry about that.) I’m living with my grandfather in a house that was built by somebody named Ezekiel Finch, who traveled to India in 1840. He was an ancestor of mine. I’m not sure what else to tell you about myself, except that I’ve been thrown out of school and I just met a girl named Nargis whose family comes from India, originally.
You asked me for some kind of proof. I’m sending you a newspaper clipping from the CARVILLE GAZETTE with today’s date on it. Maybe you could send me something like that, just so we’re sure that all of this is really happening.
Okay. Take it easy,
Gil
13
The Postmaster’s Tale
When Prescott suggested they go to the post office the next day, Gil tried to think up some excuse, but he didn’t have anything better to do. As far as he was concerned, a post office had to be the most boring place in the world. By that time, he’d already taken Kip for a walk to Rattle Beach, where he’d thrown the gripe-water bottle back into the sea. Rather than hang around at home, Gil decided to keep his grandfather company and go along for the ride. The post office in Carville was on Wordsworth Street, near the town green. It was a redbrick building with white trim and a flagpole in front.
“I always enjoy a trip to the post office,” said Prescott, as if he’d read his grandson’s mind. “People complain about the time it takes to mail a letter, but I don’t mind standing in line, even during the Christmas rush, or waiting for someone to fill out a form.”
“Why don’t you use e-mail?” said Gil.
“Too fast for me,” said Prescott. “I like to savor the time between posting a letter and getting a reply. There’s also something about words on paper that’s much more satisfying than a phone call or messages on a computer screen. I like the feeling of opening an envelope and not knowing exactly what’s written inside.”
Gil raised a skeptical eyebrow, but left it at that. When they entered the main door, Prescott pointed out a photograph of the old post office, which had burned down in 1951. The new building had been constructed on the same site, though it faced in a different direction. Along one wall were lines of postboxes. Opposite this were the counters and vending machine for stamps, as well as racks of envelopes and forms. The postmaster’s office was at the back, near the delivery and sorting rooms.
“I come here at least three times a week,” said Prescott. He was carrying a couple of letters and bills to mail. Instead of buying postage from the vending machine, he went to the counter and started talking with one of the clerks. Gil wandered over to the bulletin board, which had a display of new stamps with pictures of movie stars he didn’t recognize, the American flag and cartoon characters. He wished he’d stayed at home.
After mailing his letters, Gil’s grandfather gestured for him to follow him into the postmaster’s office, where a heavyset man with gold-rimmed glasses was sitting behind a desk piled with papers.
“Good morning, Fred,” said Prescott. “I wanted to introduce my grandson. Gil, this is Mr. Dougherty.”
The postmaster reached across the desk and shook hands.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Cup of coffee?”
“No thanks,” said Prescott. “I just dropped in to ask you a question. You’ve heard the story of the unknown postman, haven’t you?”
Fred seemed startled, then nodded. “Sure.”
“How much truth is there in the tale?”
“Truth?” said Fred with a laugh. “In a ghost story? Are you kidding? It’s nonsense! Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe in ghosts, Prescott.”
Gil suddenly got interested, leaning forward in his chair and listening carefully.
“No, of course not, but I’ve been thinking of writing a poem about the unknown postman,” said Prescott. “Firemen and soldiers get all the glory, but letter carriers are unsung heroes. They deserve to be memorialized too.”
“That’s true,” Fred agreed.
“So, I wanted some details,” Prescott said, looking sidelong at his grandson. “Even if i
t’s a folktale, the story of the unknown postman must have some basis in fact.”
Fred took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then turned to Gil. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Gil shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I, but a lot of people seem to accept the supernatural …” Fred had a slow way of talking that made Gil squirm with impatience. “They say the unknown postman walks around Carville, carrying dead letters. You know, the kind that can’t be delivered. Either the numbers and street names don’t match or there’s no return address. It could be someone’s moved without leaving forwarding instructions …”
When he paused, Gil was about to mention the strange figure he and Nargis had seen two days ago, but he decided not to interrupt the postmaster’s story.
Prescott prompted Fred. “Go on. Who was he?”
“He doesn’t have a name,” the postmaster continued. “Some say he walked a rural delivery route between the farms that lay on the outskirts of Hornswoggle Bay. But we don’t have any records and I wasn’t here back then …” When he paused, it seemed as if he’d forgotten what he was talking about, twirling a pencil between his fingers.
“Do you know how he died?” Gil asked.
“Not for sure. There’s so much rumor mixed with facts,” said Fred, now playing with the paper clips on his desk. “It’s just a tall tale—make-believe—part of the postal lore of these parts.”
“We’d like to hear it anyway,” Prescott said.
“Well …” Fred took a deep breath. “Supposedly, he was killed when the old post office burned down in 1951. He got burned up with all of the letters. Went up in smoke, along with all of the Christmas cards and other mail. The fire happened on December twentieth. Everything was destroyed, right down to the foundations. Not a trace of the postman either, though people said they saw him inside, flailing his arms and trying to put out the flames. Even the firemen claimed he died in the blaze, though they couldn’t find any of his remains when they sifted through the ashes.
“There were all sorts of rumors about letters that got lost—checks for thousands of dollars burned up in the fire, Christmas packages with expensive gifts. A lot of false insurance claims were filed. Someone demanded compensation for a diamond ring they’d sent in the mail, but there wasn’t any sign of it, or any receipt. Again, I wasn’t around to witness any of this; it’s all hearsay. All of the records and files got destroyed as well, so there’s no way to prove who the postman was. Some people believe he set the fire himself because he was upset with the postmaster. They say he pretended to fight the fire, then ran away. Others claimed he died trying to save the mail. Whether he’s the villain or the hero of this story, it’s hard to say.”
“But somebody must have known who he was,” Gil said, putting his elbows on the postmaster’s desk.
Fred shook his head. “From what I’ve heard, he had no family or friends. Over the years, people have suggested we put up a plaque for him, you know, like the unknown soldier.”
“You’ve never seen him?” Prescott asked.
“No, of course not!” Fred shuffled some of the papers on his desk. “I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts. But four days after the fire in 1951, it snowed. A white Christmas. The burned-down remains of the post office were covered in white, like a shroud. People said the next morning, all along the mail route the unknown postman used to walk, there were sooty footprints, the shape of a man’s shoe in the snow, outlined with a dusting of ash. That’s how the story started. Some people still believe he walks his route, trying to deliver the letters and cards destroyed in the fire. Some say they’ve seen him passing through the older neighborhoods of Carville at dusk. And whenever we have a white Christmas, there are reports of ashy footprints in the snow.”
14
Par Avian
THE AJEEBGARH TIMES
*
TEA PLANTER’S SON KIDNAPPED
By Our Crime Correspondent
AJEEBGARH, 8/11/1896. A brazen kidnapping occurred yesterday, when Lawrence Sleeman, the son of Mr. Roderick Sleeman, was taken captive along the footpath that runs from Upper Finch tea estate to Ambital. Reports indicate that the kidnappers are army deserters from the British military encampment on the borders of Ajeebgarh.
Mr. Sleeman and the police have appealed to the public for any information leading to the recovery of his son. No ransom note has been received from the kidnappers and their whereabouts are unknown. A reward of rupees 1,000 has been offered by H. H. Maharajah Lajawab Singh II for any clues leading to the arrest of these criminals.
Sikander tears the front-page article out of the newspaper and puts it inside the blue bottle, along with a note to Gil telling him about the kidnapping.
After throwing it in the river, he returns home to find a police inspector, from the Royal Constabulary of Ajeebgarh, waiting to question him. This is the third time he’s been interrogated. The inspector is suspicious at first, assuming that Sikander may have been associated with the kidnappers. But when he hears a description of the three men who took Lawrence hostage, the policeman nods and strokes his whiskers with a grave look on his face.
“They called themselves the three Tommies,” says Sikander, “and they talk as if they have toffees stuck in their teeth.”
“Aaah,” says the police inspector. “Deserters from the army. The Duke of Dumbarton’s own Third Foot. Wanted men. Ruthless brigands who were facing a court-martial.”
“They said they would be writing a ransom note to Mr. Sleeman,” Sikander continues.
The policeman raises his bushy eyebrows. “We’ll send out a search party to look for them, but who knows where they’ve gone. They didn’t give any indication, did they?”
Sikander shakes his head helplessly.
“You will find Lawrence, won’t you, sir?” he asks, trying to hold back his tears. “They’re not going to hurt him, are they?”
“We hope not,” says the policeman. “But these are desperate men. They’ve killed before. They’ll kill again.”
Over the next week, Sikander goes to the police station every day and asks about Lawrence, but there is no news. Search parties have scoured the hills above Ajeebgarh, but all they find are the ashes of a campfire and the bones of six trout. No other sign of the army deserters or their hostage can be found.
Though he collects lampblack each morning, and mixes ink after school, Sikander cannot forget the loss of his friend. He feels guilty for having abandoned Lawrence, even if the Tommies gave him no choice. Sometimes he becomes so upset his tears fall into the ink and dilute the mixture. The letter writer grumbles at him.
“Not the right shade of black,” he says. “What’s wrong? Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
Sikander snuffles into his sleeve and adds more soot and resin until the ink is the correct color and consistency—as dark as his mood.
An old woman has come to dictate a letter to her son. Her message is full of family gossip and rambles on for several pages. Sikander feels frustrated listening to the woman, thinking there are so many more important things that could be written. When it’s finished, the letter is folded into an envelope and sealed. Sikander is told to carry it to the post office and make sure it is mailed to Calcutta. This time, he doesn’t leap to his feet but walks slowly, dejectedly through the crowded lane, head held low.
“What’s wrong with you?” asks the postal clerk when Sikander hands him the letter. “Such a long face!”
“My friend has been kidnapped,” he explains. “I’m afraid he’ll be killed.”
From his stool behind the counter, the clerk peers down at Sikander sympathetically before he weighs the letter.
“There haven’t been any letters for Mr. Sleeman at the tea estate, have there?” Sikander asks. “We’re waiting for a ransom note.”
The clerk shakes his head, then checks the envelope. “First class to Calcutta … Three ounces … Two annas.”
Sikander hands over
the coins and listens to the thump, thump as the clerk cancels the stamp. It sounds like a judge’s hammer, punctuating a fatal verdict.
When Sikander returns to the letter writer’s shop, he finds that Ghulam Rusool has gone out for his afternoon walk. Picking up the pen and choosing a blank sheet of paper, Sikander dips the nib in a bottle of ink. Maybe if he writes to Lawrence, something might happen, though he knows there is no address to which his message can be sent.
Dear Lawrence,
Don’t be afraid. The police are searching for you. I’m sure they will rescue you very soon. Please don’t think I was a coward to run away. I didn’t want to leave you but I had no choice. Now I wish I’d stayed with you or let them kidnap me instead. We’re waiting for the ransom note but nothing has reached your father yet. I’m sure he’ll pay the money as soon as he can and make the Tommies set you free.
I am your friend,
Sikander
As soon as he finishes writing the note, Sikander has an idea. He hurries home and climbs to the roof of his house. Taking one of the pigeons from the coop, he rolls the note around its leg and ties it with a piece of string. Then he tosses the bird into the air and watches it fly away, high into the air, circling once, then disappearing into the clouds.
15
Lenore
There were a lot of things Gil didn’t know about his grandfather, until he moved into the Yankee Mahal. One of them was that Prescott had a girlfriend. Her name was Lenore Sullivan and she lived in Houghton-on-Waspanoag, just across the bay from Carville. It was a much more exclusive town, with a yacht club and palatial homes. Lenore’s house was smaller than most, set off by itself on a spit of land near the mouth of the Waspanoag River. There was a broad beach in front with clam flats at low tide and sand dunes fringed with poverty grass.
The day after Gil and Nargis discovered the skeletal hand, Lenore invited Prescott and his grandson over to dinner. Gil felt self-conscious meeting her at first, but his grandfather reassured him.
Ghost Letters Page 5