Ghost Letters (14 page)

You're going to get us into a lot of trouble,” Gil whispered as he crouched down and followed Nargis along the dock. Lights were burning at each corner of the marina and the moon was almost full, but between the lines of moored boats the shadows were as dark as spilled oil.

“Here,” said Nargis, stopping a few yards from the end of the dock. A lobster boat was rocking gently on the incoming tide. Before Gil could stop her, Nargis had clambered aboard. He hesitated, crouching next to one of the posts on the dock. It was past nine o'clock and Gil had promised his grandfather he'd be home by ten. He and Nargis had said they were going to a movie at the Cineplex, but instead they were sneaking around the waterfront. Finally, Gil got up the courage to reach out and grab the side of the lobster boat. Throwing one leg over, he climbed inside. Nargis was tugging at something in the back, and all at once there was a crash.

“Are you insane?” said Gil. “What are you doing?”

“Got it,” said Nargis, holding up an old lobster trap. Gil could just make out what it was in the dark.

“You're going to steal that?” he said.

“Borrow it,” she said.

“For what?”

“Shh!” said Nargis, kneeling down.

A guard with a flashlight was walking down the dock. Gil lowered his head, feeling something wet and slimy under his knees. He didn't want to know what it was. The yellow beam of light moved across the line of boats, illuminating the decks and cabins, probing for the source of the sound. Gil held his breath as the light flickered across the top of the lobster boat, which had a high, square cabin with a brass foghorn. Any second now, he expected the light to flash in his eyes, but after a minute or two the guard turned around. Nargis waited until the door of the marina office closed, then gestured for Gil to follow her. Carrying the lobster trap between them, they made their way quickly to the parking lot where they'd left their bikes. A few days earlier, Gil had fixed up his grandfather's old bicycle, putting air in the tires and oiling the chain. It worked, though there weren't any gears and the bike creaked and groaned.

“Now, will you please tell me why you're stealing a lobster trap?” said Gil as Nargis unlocked her bike.

“I thought you might have figured that out by now,” she said. “We're going to catch the spinster's hand.”

Balancing the trap on the handlebars in front of her, Nargis set off without waiting for a response. Gil stood there stunned
for several moments, then quickly jumped on his bike and began to pedal after her, racing to keep Nargis in sight. Instead of going through the center of Carville, which was brightly lit, she took a back street where they wouldn't be seen. By the time Gil had finally caught up with her, she was already at the cemetery gate.

“This isn't going to work, I'm sure, but what are you planning to do if you actually catch the hand?” said Gil.

Nargis thought for a moment. “We'll show it to your grandfather and prove we weren't lying.”

The main gate of the cemetery was locked and there was a large sign:
NO ENTRY FROM SUNSET TO SUNRISE
. But the wall was only three feet high, and they could easily climb over. After hiding their bikes behind a laurel hedge, Gil and Nargis carried the old lobster trap inside. It wasn't heavy but it was awkward, made of narrow slats of wood, held together with wire and rope mesh. The trap was wet and smelled of fish.

Camellia Stubbs's grave lay under the chestnut tree. When they set the trap down next to her headstone, Gil could just make out her name. Standing in the dark, he felt he was being watched, not from the trees or the street, or even by the moon overhead, but from under the earth, as if there were eyes in the ground staring up at him through the grass.

“Now all we need is some bait,” said Nargis, setting the trap. Gil looked at her as she handed him a pen and her homework notebook. “What's this?”

“You said your handwriting is pretty bad. I'm sure she'll try to crumple it up.”

“What do I write?” said Gil.

“Anything you like,” said Nargis.

It was cold in the graveyard and Gil shivered as a sharp wind blew in off Hornswoggle Bay. His fingers were shaking so badly he didn't have to try to make his handwriting messy, scribbling a few lines on the page. In the dark, he could barely make out his own words:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Everyone's dead,

And so are you.

Tearing out the page, Gil handed it to Nargis, who put the piece of paper inside the trap.

“Okay, let's get out of here,” she said. “Tomorrow morning, on my way to school, I'll check and see if we've caught anything.”

Gil's hands still smelled from the lobster trap, and the knees of his jeans were wet as they headed toward the gate. He pulled the collar of his parka up to his chin, then started to laugh, first a snicker, then louder, as if he'd just heard a hilarious joke.

“What's wrong with you?” said Nargis, starting to laugh herself, both of them giggling with nervous relief.

Gil tried to catch his breath but the laughter made it impossible for him to speak. Nargis too was in hysterics now and both of them were doubled up, as if they'd just done the stupidest thing in the world, setting a lobster trap for a ghost.
Nargis was laughing so hard, she had tears streaming down her face, and Gil felt as if he was going to collapse. Then, all at once, they stopped.

A clattering noise came from the direction of Camellia's grave. It sounded like somebody rattling a door. Nargis and Gil were still gasping from their laughing fit, but now they were seriously scared. The grin on Gil's face turned into a mask of horror as Nargis grabbed his arm so hard it hurt. The noise grew louder and more insistent, a frenzied knocking and banging followed by a clatter.

“We've caught it!” Nargis said in a choked whisper. Slowly, she let go of Gil's arm.

“N-no way …!” he stammered, trembling from the soles of his feet to his scalp.

Though it was the last thing either of them wanted to do, the two turned back and started running in the direction of the sound. When they got to Camellia's grave, there was no sign of the trap. Farther down, near the lower wall of the cemetery, they heard a loud crash and a cracking sound, as if someone were breaking a chair. Without thinking, they hurried down the hill, dodging tombstones and trying to locate the sound. By the time they reached the bottom, everything was silent. In the shadowy moonlight, the two of them looked around, eyes wide with fear, terrified at what they might find.

Feeling as if his legs had turned into rubber bands, Gil saw something lying in the grass. It was part of the trap, two slats of splintered wood and frayed bits of rope. Farther on, Nargis found shredded pieces of paper on which Gil had scribbled his
poem. The palms of her hands were sweating even though it was freezing cold. Near the cemetery wall were more scattered remains of the lobster trap. It looked as if it had been torn apart by some kind of wild animal, mangled pieces of wood and wire ripped apart in a furious rage.

A loud explosion rocks the walls of the house. Sikander lies under his bed, where he has taken shelter, along with his mother and sister. He wonders where his father must be, afraid to think what might have happened to him. As one of the maharajah's bodyguards, Sikander's father must be facing the full brunt of the British assault. Another shell bursts near the house and the ground trembles. Fighting has been going on since dawn and Sikander guesses it must be noon. The air is full of smoke and he can hear the rustle of flames from one of the houses nearby.

Unable to bear it any longer, Sikander squirms out from under the bed. His mother calls to him, but he tells her not to worry. He will find his father, he says, don't be afraid. Pushing aside the table that barricades their front door, Sikander sees the carnage outside, a neighbor's house burned to the ground. Another home has been destroyed by an artillery shell, its roof collapsed and the windows shattered. There is no one on the
street. By now the sound of gunfire has subsided to a distant crackling from the northern quarter of the city.

As he makes his way toward the palace, Sikander sees nothing but destruction: a timber merchant's shop on fire, billowing black smoke; a carriage overturned, no sign of the horse; two men carrying a wounded figure to safety; a body slumped across a doorstep.

Ducking as he runs, Sikander moves from the cover of a shattered wall to the flimsy protection of a fallen awning. With a sudden clatter of hooves, two donkeys run past in panic, braying loudly. The sky is dark with smoke, even though it is midday and the smell of burning fires has a sour stench. With a whistling sound, another shell comes in over the rooftops, bursting in the square and leaving a smoldering crater eight feet wide.

Sikander dashes across to the railway station. One of the domes has been destroyed, but the clock is still intact and reads twenty minutes past twelve. Taking a lane into the spice bazaar, Sikander sees bags of red chilies and yellow tumeric spilling into the gutter. Many of the buildings have been ransacked, but the calligrapher's shop remains untouched, its front door sealed with a heavy padlock. Usually the street is crowded with people. Today it is deserted, except for a man who has been wounded. He sits on the ground, staring into space. When Sikander stops to ask if he can help, the man shakes his head as if in a trance and waves the boy away.

But more disturbing than anything he has seen until now are the ruins of the Central Post and Telegraph Office. The
whole building has collapsed, smoking like a volcano. Nothing is left of the pillared verandas, the broad steps, or the ornate brickwork along the roof, the high ceilings and the polished brass grilles. All is gone, as if this were the target at which every gun had been aimed. The telegraph wire has snapped off and lies tangled in the rubble.

Sikander has no time to stop. He races toward the river. The bridge has been badly damaged, but enough remains for him to cross over. Another half a mile and he reaches the palace. Here he can see line upon line of armed men in red uniforms—British troops. The firing has stopped and the palace has been captured. Maharajah Lajawab Singh II has surrendered, his flag torn down. The façade of his palace, which once shone pristine white with marble balconies and terraces, is pockmarked with bullet holes and streaked with soot. A group of soldiers are dragging a burning piano out of a door as another group leads a dozen prisoners across the parade ground. Sikander gives a start as he sees his father in the group. Mehboob Khan walks with his head held high. His shirt is bloodstained and his hands are tied behind his back. Sikander begins to shout but stops himself just in time. He knows his father is alive, but there is nothing he can do to help.

Rushing home to tell his mother and his sister, he finds them tending to a neighbor whose house has burned next door. The injured woman lies on a couch as Sikander's mother gives her water to drink and ties a bandage around her bleeding arm. Now that the guns have fallen silent, Sikander can hear wailing throughout the town, voices crying out the names
of those who are lost. When he tells his mother that his father has been taken prisoner, she sighs with relief because he is alive, but does not smile.

Feeling helpless and afraid, Sikander slips away to his room. Above their home, pigeons are circling through the smoke. While he was running through the streets, he had been able to hold back his fear. Now that he is home again, he finds his whole body shaking, as if the aftershock of war is worse than the battle itself. From under his pillow he takes the blue bottle. Today, even the bright color of the glass looks dull. With an unsteady hand, he opens an ink pot and picks up a pen. On the back of the note that Gil has sent, Sikander writes a desperate reply, telling his friend that all is lost. Ajeebgarh has been destroyed.

You still haven't told me why you got thrown out of school, Grandpa,” said Gil.

Prescott looked up from his plate, where the spaghetti had formed a horse's mane against a sunset of tomato sauce.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Why did you get expelled from McCauley?” Gil repeated.

“Oh, that…,” said Prescott, taking his fork and turning the noodles into a slippery tornado. “It was a number of things I'd done. The teachers didn't like me very much—‘too rebellious, not enough school spirit,' they told my parents. As far as I was concerned McCauley Prep was a pretentious pile of …”—he hesitated for a moment before finishing the sentence—“…horse manure. But the thing that really ticked them off were some of the limericks I wrote about the headmaster and the teachers. That's what finally got me kicked out of school.”

“For writing limericks?” said Gil. “That's nothing.”

“Well …,” said Prescott, taking a bite of food. “These were pretty rude limericks for 1953. Things were a bit more conservative back then. I can't remember all of them, but the headmaster was Archibald Newmann. We called him Starchy Archie, among other things.” Pausing a moment, Prescott recited the limerick:

“There once was a headmaster called Newmann,

Whose mind was more floral than human.

While picking his nose,

He dug out a rose,

Crying, ‘Egads! My brain is a-bloom'n!' ”

Gil laughed. “What does ‘Egads' mean?”

“It's an old-fashioned expression that Newmann always used, like ‘Oh geez!' ” Prescott shook his head. “I can't believe I still remember these limericks. I wrote them more than fifty years ago, when I was your age. We passed them around the school, until one of the teachers found a copy and I was hauled up in front of Newmann. There was a whole series, one about each of the teachers. Here's another that's coming back to me, about our math teacher, who was completely off his rocker: