“What is it?” Gil asked.
“What does it look like?” she said. “Somebody’s hair.”
Gil made a face. “That’s gross.”
“Not as gross as a skeleton’s hand.”
After reading the love letter, they picked the letter from Hermes next, with the typed address. Again the scimitar cut smoothly through the paper, with a dry whispering sound.
“Sick! More hair!” said Gil.
“Looks like a caterpillar.” Nargis poked at it with the paper knife.
“No, it’s a fake moustache.”
“Now, that’s disgusting.”
“But look at the message. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Must be some kind of code.”
Unable to decipher the message, they picked up the third envelope. “This one looks like something Kipling might have found,” said Gil, sniffing it.
“Some kid must have written it,” Nargis added. “I’m surprised the spinster’s hand hasn’t crumpled it up.”
This time the blade of the letter opener didn’t slip in as smoothly, and tore a ragged line along the fold. There was hair inside this envelope too, a handful of red curls that looked as if they’d never been combed. Brushing these onto the desk beside the neatly tied brown lock and the black moustache, Nargis squinted at the awkward writing.
“The ransom note!” she said.
34
Rest in Peace
For the past two days, Kipling had been listless. When Gil tried to get him to go for a walk, he wagged his tail but refused to go beyond the yard. He didn’t seem interested in eating, either, which was unusual. Sunday morning he was sprawled on the kitchen floor, in his favorite place next to the radiator. When Gil headed out the door to rake leaves in the backyard, he noticed the old dog’s feet were twitching and he gave a couple of muffled barks, probably dreaming that he was chasing a postman.
Within an hour, Kipling died in his sleep. Prescott found him when he came into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He noticed Kip wasn’t breathing. Kneeling down and placing a hand on his side, Prescott knew it was over. After a few minutes alone, he went outside and called Gil, who could tell something was wrong from the tone of his grandfather’s voice.
“Kip sounded wheezy this morning,” said Prescott, blowing his nose into a checkered handkerchief. “I was thinking about taking him to the vet.”
Gil stared down at the lifeless dog. He felt awful and wanted to say something to comfort his grandfather but couldn’t speak for a minute or two.
“How old was he?” Gil asked at last.
“Fourteen,” said Prescott. “Almost a hundred in human years.”
“He was barking in his sleep when I came past him this morning,” said Gil.
“Must have had a heart attack.” Prescott put a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “If you’ve got to go, there isn’t a better way …”
“What are we going to do?” Gil said.
“I guess we should bury him. Sooner the better,” Prescott said. “I’ll get something to wrap Kip in, and you can bring the shovel from the garden shed. We’ll find a place out back.”
Gil was glad to get outdoors. He felt a little dizzy, and the clean fall air was cold in his lungs. He choked back his tears as he walked across the leaf-littered lawn, half of which he’d raked into piles. Though he’d known the dog for only a couple of weeks, it seemed as if he’d lost a friend. Gil felt much worse for his grandfather, knowing how close he’d been to Kipling. Even if the dog went peacefully in his sleep, it seemed a terrible thing to happen, so suddenly without any warning. Gil couldn’t stop thinking of Kip’s paws kicking less than an hour ago, as if he were trying to run in his sleep. Now he was gone.
When Prescott came out, his eyes were red and swollen. Just looking at his grandfather, Gil felt a lump in his throat. Awkwardly, they walked around the edge of the yard, trying to find a place to bury Kipling.
“Maybe back there,” said Prescott, pointing to a stand of birches with papery white trunks. A couple of gold leaves still clung to the thin branches, but otherwise the trees were bare.
Gil raked away the dead foliage. After choosing a spot where there weren’t too many rocks, he began to dig. At first it was easy, the shovel plunging into the soft layers of mulch and earth, but after he got down a foot or more, there were rocks and tree roots. He and his grandfather took turns. It was a relief having something to do, the exertion of digging clearing his mind. Gil had never dug a grave before, and it felt strange, knowing that this was where Kipling would soon be laid to rest. It wasn’t a very large hole, two feet across and three feet long, but the deeper it got, the harder it was to shovel out the dirt.
“Another six inches,” said Prescott as Gil wiped the sweat off his face. “Do you want me to take over?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Gil, feeling the shovel strike something hard. “Here’s another stone.”
He dug around it first, so he could slide the blade underneath, then pried it up. But as soon as he saw what he’d unearthed, Gil stopped abruptly.
“Geez!” he said softly.
Prescott let out a low whistle.
As he lifted the shovel, more of the dirt fell away, revealing a rectangular box. Without saying anything, Prescott reached out and took it, then brushed away the rest of the soil. When he opened the box, Gil blinked in astonishment and caught his breath. Inside was the gold inkstand from the portrait of Ezekiel Finch. Even though it had lain underground for more than a century, the rubies and emeralds glinted in the autumn sunlight.
Gil and his grandfather stared at each other with amazement, stunned by what they’d found. Prescott finally closed the box and set it on the ground.
“First things first,” he said softly, turning toward the house. Gil shoveled out a few more inches of earth and glanced back to see his grandfather come out of the Yankee Mahal, carrying Kipling’s body wrapped in a gray blanket. Neither of them spoke as the dog was laid in the ground.
“So long, old friend,” said Prescott.
“Bye, Kip,” said Gil.
Each of them tossed a handful of earth into the grave, then Prescott picked up the shovel and began to fill in the hole. After a few minutes, Gil took over again and shoveled the pile of earth on top of the dog, burying him forever in the ground.
35
Terms of Surrender
Today, the ink that Sikander makes, according to the calligrapher’s instructions, is blended from the black residue scraped out of the mouth of a cannon. It has an acrid, sulfurous stench as Sikander grinds the burnt powder with his mortar and pestle. He also adds the charred remains of a scrap of blackened timber that he picked from the ruins of Ajeebgarh’s post office. This is mixed with the juice of a bitter gourd and clear resin from a coffin-wood tree. The color of the ink reflects the dark pall lying over Ajeebgarh today, a black mood of fear and defeat. Against his wishes, Ghulam Rusool, the calligrapher, has been ordered to write the terms of the maharajah’s surrender, as dictated by Major General Sir Mortimer Somerset-Downs. It must be written both in English and Urdu, so that all who can read will understand that Lajawab Singh II has relinquished his throne.
Among the various terms and conditions under which the maharajah surrenders, he will never again be permitted the prestige of issuing his own postage stamps. Henceforward, all mail sent or delivered to Ajeebgarh will carry postage that bears Queen Victoria’s profile instead of the maharajah’s turbaned visage. In addition to this, whatever tea is produced in Ajeebgarh can be sold only to British traders, and all economic and political connections with Russia are severed.
Though Lajawab Singh’s life will be spared, he is exiled to an island off the coast of Nova Scotia, far away from his native state. But of all the terms of surrender that make the hands of the calligrapher’s apprentice shake, as he stirs the ingredients for this fatal ink, the worst is that the maharajah’s bodyguards will be executed. His father and the other men who remained loyal to thei
r king will be tied across the mouths of cannons, day after tomorrow, and shot at dawn. Sikander feels all is lost. Staring into the stone mortar full of ink, he cannot find even a glimmer of hope. When he finally pours the black liquid into the calligrapher’s ink pot and arranges the pens and paper for this tragic document, Sikander sets aside a little of the ink for himself. Retreating to the back of the shop, he takes a slip of paper and writes a desperate note to Gil.
Then he picks up the blue bottle from under a pile of rags, where he hid it yesterday after retrieving the last message. Walking alone through the smoldering ruins of Ajeebgarh, he takes a shortcut past a graveyard, which seems more alive than the city itself. Those who died in the siege of Ajeebgarh are buried here beneath freshly turned mounds of earth. Other casualties have been cremated on the banks of the Magor River. As Sikander reaches the temples and shrines that overlook the burning ghats, funeral pyres are burning. Those who were injured during the attack have succumbed to their wounds. Everything he sees today reminds him of death.
When Sikander finally arrives on the riverbank, he already has tears in his eyes. The slow-moving current is blurred and the glass bottle in his hand seems to melt within his vision. Sikander thinks of his lost friend Lawrence and the British cannons that await his father. In a gesture of anger and anguish, he jams the cork into the throat of the bottle and hurls it out into the river.
36
The Inkstand
Lenore drove across to the Yankee Mahal as soon as Prescott called to tell her about Kipling’s death. She brought some roses, which she placed on the dog’s grave. When they came back into the kitchen, Prescott put water on for tea and made them each a cup. A few minutes later, he brought out the inkstand to show Lenore and explained where it had been found.
“Do you think those are real rubies and emeralds?” Gil asked. He was almost afraid to touch it.
“Must be,” said Lenore. “And these blue stones are sapphires.”
“The stand is solid gold,” said Prescott. “Feel the weight.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Gil asked.
Prescott shook his head. “I have no idea.”
Taking one of the crystal ink pots, which looked like a huge diamond, Lenore held it up to the light. The ink pot was like a prism, its polished facets refracting a rainbow of colors.
“It must be worth a ton of money,” said Gil.
“Priceless,” said Lenore.
“It belongs in a museum,” Prescott added.
Even though they were all amazed by the beauty and extravagance of the inkstand, they were still subdued by what had happened to Kip. Seeing his feeding bowl on the kitchen floor, Gil felt a sudden ache of sadness. In a weird way, it seemed as if, even in death, Kipling had led them to the inkstand, just as he led them to the old mailbox and the spinster’s hand. Lenore turned the stand around and read aloud an inscription on the back:
For my Darling Camellia
Whose words are as precious as jewels
and as pure as gold.
“Ezekiel must have loved her very much,” said Lenore.
“It’s a shame she never got to see this inkstand,” said Prescott. “He was going to give it to her as an engagement gift, but then she turned him down.”
Gil almost said something about the lost letters that Nargis had found, especially the one from Camellia, but he didn’t know how Prescott and Lenore would react, and he wasn’t sure how to explain it all.
This time, after they drank their tea, Lenore didn’t read the leaves. Instead, she let Gil put the cups in the dishwasher. Just as he was finishing, the doorbell rang. Gil knew it must be Nargis. After letting her in, he explained what had happened.
“That’s awful! Poor Kip …,” said Nargis. “I can’t believe it. Should I come back later?”
“No, it’s all right,” said Gil.
Nargis followed him to the kitchen.
“I’m really sorry about your dog …,” she started to say. Prescott gave her a sad smile as Lenore reached out and hugged her. Just then, Nargis noticed the gold inkstand on the kitchen counter.
“Whoa!” she said under her breath. “Where did that come from?”
Gil caught her eye. “We found this in the backyard when we were burying Kip.”
Nargis touched the gold inkstand, running her fingers over the intricate workmanship and the precious jewels. When Lenore explained that it was supposed to have been a gift for Camellia, Nargis turned to Gil.
“Have you shown them the letters?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said, hesitating. “Should I?”
“I think so.” Nargis nodded.
Prescott and Lenore looked puzzled as Gil headed upstairs to the rolltop desk, where they had left the letters in a pigeonhole. Meanwhile, Nargis told them how she had found the three sealed envelopes in the old mailbox on Trash Hill.
When Gil returned, Prescott and Lenore unfolded Camellia’s letter first and read it together silently. Gil and Nargis exchanged an uncertain glance. When he finished, Prescott asked to see the envelope.
“Are you sure this is real?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Nargis. “Who else would have written it?”
“There are two more letters,” Gil added. “One is a ransom note and the other is written in some kind of code.”
As Prescott and Lenore studied the Tommy’s scribbled, misspelled note and the strange typewritten words, Nargis nudged Gil.
“Tell them about the bottle,” she urged.
Taking a deep breath, he explained how he’d been sending messages back and forth to Sikander. Gil could see the look of suspicion in his grandfather’s eyes, but Prescott didn’t speak until Gil finished.
“What bottle is this?” he asked.
“The blue gripe-water bottle I showed you last week—remember? I didn’t say anything about the messages because I didn’t think you’d believe me,” Gil confessed.
“Where’s the bottle now?” asked Prescott.
“I threw it into the ocean yesterday but I haven’t got a reply. I can show you Sikander’s messages if you like,” said Gil.
Prescott tugged at his moustache uncertainly as Gil ran back up to his room. Lenore was trying to decipher the coded words that Hermes had written. She thought they might be anagrams and was trying to juggle the letters. A few minutes later, Gil spread all of Sikander’s handwritten messages on the kitchen counter beside the inkstand. Prescott inspected them carefully.
“So, you’re trying to tell me these were written more than a hundred years ago?” he said with a skeptical frown. “Is there any way to prove it?”
“Come on, Prescott, why would they be making all this up?” said Lenore. She seemed almost convinced.
Gil stared at both of them helplessly. “Sikander wrote to us about his friend Lawrence being kidnapped. He sent us this newspaper clipping. And look, the letter Nargis found must be the ransom note …”
“If only there was some way we could send these letters back in history,” Nargis interrupted. “Maybe Ezekiel Finch would change his mind, and Lawrence could be freed.”
“But that’s impossible,” said Prescott.
“I don’t know,” said Gil. “Sikander has been writing to us about the battle of Ajeebgarh. The British army has invaded the city … I mean, they attacked a hundred years ago. But for Sikander it’s happening right now.”
Prescott began to shake his head.
“You have to believe us, Mr. Finch,” said Nargis. “We aren’t lying. There’s also a genie …”
Hearing this, even Lenore looked doubtful.
“Genie?” said Prescott, without any attempt to hide his disbelief.
“We tried to show you the other day,” Gil blurted out. “But he wouldn’t rise off the page. His name is Aristo and you have to read this poem aloud to call him.”
Prescott picked up Camellia’s letter again and frowned. “This certainly looks genuine enough and could be a letter Camellia Stu
bbs wrote, but all this stuff about messages in a bottle traveling back and forth through time … And now you want me to believe in a genie?”
“We’d call him up for you,” said Gil, his voice growing desperate. “But it’s Sunday and he takes the weekends off.”
Lenore and Prescott exchanged doubtful looks.
“It’s true,” Nargis said in frustration. “It’s really, honestly true!”
“All right,” said Prescott, putting up both hands. “I’m not saying either of you is lying, but maybe your imaginations have got the best of you. The only thing we have here are a lot of random letters and messages. Maybe they fit together. Maybe not …”
As his voice trailed off, Lenore spoke up. “Wait a minute; I know this sounds crazy, but I believe them.”
“Of course you would,” said Prescott, rolling his eyes.
“No, but don’t you see?” said Lenore. “It all makes sense. Gil’s star sign is governed by Mercury, the messenger. That’s why these letters have come to him. If he can deliver them, like Nargis said, then maybe he can help his friend Sikander and bring Ezekiel and Camellia together again!”
Gil frowned, not completely sure what she meant.
“It’s exactly what I predicted,” said Lenore. “It was written in the tea leaves, and on the palm of his hand, just as it’s there in his horoscope. Gil is the messenger. To be a peacemaker, to save a life, to offer the key of love, he has to send these letters back in time.”
“Okay,” said Nargis. “But how?”
37
Scrambled Alphabet
That night Gil had trouble falling asleep. He tried to read a novel his grandfather had given him, but his eyes kept wandering off the page and anxiously tracing the patterns in the wallpaper next to his bed, as if it were a puzzle he needed to solve. When he finally turned off the light, he tossed and turned for almost an hour and finally dozed off into unsettled dreams. He found himself in a place he’d never been before—it could have been India—though parts of it were familiar, like the buildings of his old school. He was sitting in a classroom and listening to a teacher who looked like Aristo, except the teacher had legs. Suddenly, there in front of him on the desk was the blue bottle. As quietly as possible, he tried to uncork the bottle, but it made a loud popping noise, like champagne. Everyone in the classroom turned to look at him. Something was spilling out of the bottle, and he tried to keep it from overflowing by holding his thumb over the mouth. Then all at once, he wasn’t in the classroom anymore, and instead of the bottle he was holding a scimitar in his hand…
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