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
18
A Rolltop Desk
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.
19
The Overland Mail
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 is
n’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.
Getting to his feet, Lawrence can feel the prickling itch of circulation returning to his arms and legs. He reaches for the latch on the door and begins to draw it open. The rusted metal makes a grating sound, and Lawrence glances anxiously at the sleeping soldiers. One of them rolls over, making a grunting noise. Easing the latch free, he begins to push on the door. The hinges creak, but at that moment a rat comes scurrying into the room. It runs between Lawrence’s feet and across the floor, scampering over the Tommies’ legs.
Lawrence hears a loud curse as he rushes outdoors, no longer trying to escape quietly. Leaping from the veranda of the dak bungalow, he begins to run down the main path. Behind him, he can hear the soldiers shouting at one another and the crunch of pounding boots. In the moonlight, the forest is a confusion of shadows, and Lawrence has no idea which direction he should run.
The Tommies blunder after him as he jumps off the path and throws himself down the side of the hill, racing through the jungle and tripping over vines. The moon is mostly hidden now, except for scattered patches of light. Dense foliage encloses Lawrence in a maze of darkness. Through the treacherous night, the predators chase their prey, until at last, a musket shot rings out and all is silent …
20
To Whom It May Concern
Gil wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but when he set aside the scimitar and unfolded the single sheet of paper, he discovered nothing more than two stanzas of poetry. From the weight of the envelope and the wax seal, he’d been imagining something much more exciting. Disappointed, Gil read the lines under his breath:
“Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight …” Okay, he thought. enough! Why do poets have to use such flowery language? But he kept on reading until he came to the second stanza: “The moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it …”
Boom!
Suddenly, there was a muted explosion, as if the paper Gil was holding had caught fire—a kind of spontaneous combustion. In that same moment, the ink on the page began to evaporate, the words disintegrating into a sooty cloud. Gil let go of the paper and jumped back against the wall of the study. As he watched, wide-eyed, the gray puff of smoke began to form itself into a shape, a human figure from the waist up. It was almost as if the particles of ink dust were pixels on a video screen, flickering as they rearranged themselves into a recognizable form. The words from the page had turned into a man, or at least the upper half of a man. He had no legs or feet, though he stood a few inches taller than Gil.
The clothes he wore were black and white: a formal dinner jacket with satin lapels, a starched white shirt and a striped cravat. He looked exactly like an English butler, with a thin moustache that formed two hyphens across his upper lip. His hair was slicked back from his forehead in a stylish wave.
“At your service, m’lord …”
“Are you talking to me?” Gil was barely able to speak.
“Naturally,” said the butler with a stiff little bow. “Who else would there be?”
“I don’t know,” Gil stammered, “b-but who are you?”
“Aristophanes Smith, at your service. You’re welcome to call me Aristo, if you wish, sir,” said the butler. “I’m your personal djinn … or genie, as they say over here in the West. You’ve just let me out of my envelope.”
The figure dusted off his lapels and bowed again. “But I thought …,” Gil started to say, then stopped.
After an awkward pause, Aristo coughed politely. “Yes, m’lord. You were saying?”
“Aren’t genies supposed to wear turbans? And have big muscles …?” Gil hesitated again, not sure if the figure would be offended.
“Well, sir. I am an English djinn. We have all sorts.” The butler flexed his arms defensively. “And though I may be out of shape—having spent the last century inside an envelope—I’m sure I can lift most anything you desire.”
“But I thought you came out of lamps, not envelopes …” This conversation was making Gil very uncomfortable.
“Another common misconception,” said Aristo. “Some of us still may be found in lamps or bottles. However, letters are much more efficient and easier to dispatch.”
“But I’m not sure I need a genie …,” said Gil.
“Well, you never know, m’lord,” said Aristo with a thoughtful frown. �
�There’s always something that needs to be done—opening locked doors, fetching groceries, making beds, doing homework, delivering messages.”
“Do I get three wishes?” Gil asked cautiously. “I’m afraid it’s only two,” said the genie. “Budget constraints. Unfortunately, we’ve had to cut back on our services.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it,” said Gil, edging across the room toward the door.
Immediately, the genie opened it for him and said, “After you, sir.”
“Um … listen,” said Gil. “You don’t need to follow me around. Maybe you could just go back into your envelope and wait until I call you.”
“At your command, sir!” The genie nodded.
“Wait! That isn’t one of my wishes, is it?” Gil asked quickly.
Aristo shook his head. “Only the really big ones count. You know, asking for a million dollars. Or demanding that I cut off a sultan’s head.”
Gil nodded. “Okay …”
“Right you are!” said Aristo. “I’ll be here when I’m required. All you need to do is read the poem again.”
Instantly, he seemed to fade away into a sprinkling of ink dust that fell back onto the sheet of paper at Gil’s feet, rearranging itself into words. When he picked the poem up, Gil could see that the verses had been restored. He carefully folded the page and slid it into the envelope, which he tucked inside one of the pigeonholes in the rolltop desk. Pulling down the lid, he locked it with the brass key. After that, Gil sat down quickly to catch his breath. This time, he definitely wasn’t going to tell his grandfather what he’d seen, at least not until he was absolutely sure there was a genie in the envelope.
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Ghost Letters Page 7