Ghost Letters (18 page)

“I promise I won't make up any more stories about skeletal hands and genies,” he said.

“So, you're saying that was all made up?” Prescott asked with a serious expression.

Gil hesitated. “No. I guess I didn't make it up, but I'll never mention it again.”

“Truth is, I really don't mind if you're seeing things or even imagining them,” Prescott said. “But as for staying here, we'll have to talk to your parents about that.”

“I thought if I told them I'm a pacifist like you, then they might not force me to go to Howitzer.”

His grandfather grinned. “I'm not sure you'll have to take it that far,” he said. “Remember, conscientious objectors sometimes get sent to jail, which is a whole lot worse than a military academy.”

Gil kept quiet for a moment. “You don't believe in war?” he asked.

Prescott shook his head. “It never seems to solve anything, as far as I can see.”

Gil thought of the message he'd received from Sikander about the destruction of Ajeebgarh.

“Even if I wasn't just trying to get out of going to military school,” he said, “I think I'd become a conscientious objector.”

“I hope you never have to make that choice,” said Prescott. “Now, let's think of other ways to persuade your parents to let you stay here.”

“Do you think I really can?” said Gil.

“I'll speak to your mother,” Prescott assured him. “Of
course, she's never listened to me before, but I'll give it a try and do everything I can.”

• • •

Later that day, when Gil went down to Rattle Beach, the blue bottle lay in a tidal pool, along with a couple of sea urchins and a yellow starfish. He stared at the bottle for a while before picking it up, thinking how it must have been washed onto the rocks by the waves and how it had been carried through history, over a hundred years. Gil planned to take the bottle home with him and show it to his grandfather, hoping that Prescott would believe him at last. But first he wanted to read the message it contained. Sometimes he wished he could meet Sikander face-to-face, instead of just writing back and forth to him. But that seemed even more impossible than exchanging messages in a gripe-water bottle.

Though the tide was out, the sea was rough, and it looked as if it might snow again. The clouds were rumpled against the horizon like the surf. Staring out at the waves, Gil wondered what it would be like to sail across the Atlantic and travel all the way to India. Of course, now he could fly there in a jet, not like Ezekiel Finch, whose clipper ships took months to circle all the way around Africa. Gil had never thought of taking a journey like that before, but now it seemed like something he might enjoy—discovering new countries and places, hearing different languages spoken …
and escaping from military school. Until recently, he'd been happy just to stay near home, but staring out at the waves, he felt an urge to go somewhere far away, somewhere he'd never been before.

When he finally picked the bottle up, Gil had to brush off strands of kelp that were wrapped around its neck. The glass was slippery and cold, like a seashell. The cork felt tighter than before. At first he couldn't get it open, then Gil held the bottle up to look inside. There was a scroll of paper, another message from Sikander.

Gil took the cork between his fingers again and tried to twist it off. All at once, the bottle slid from his grasp. He felt it falling and desperately tried to catch it. But before he could do anything, the bottle of A. K. Jaddoowalla's Finest Indian Gripe Water fell on the rocks and shattered into a dozen pieces. Gil's breath stuck in his throat. He wanted to shout, but no words came out. For several long seconds, he looked down in horror at the jagged blue shards upon the rocks.

Finally, with a sense of despair, he picked up the scroll of paper and read Sikander's words.

Dear Gil,

I need your help! The war is over but we have worse news. My father and the other bodyguards are going to be executed day after tomorrow at dawn. Please do anything you
can … anything! Please try! I'm waiting for your answer.

Your friend,

Sikander

The slip of paper rustled in the ocean breeze as Gil stared down at the broken bottle at his feet. He felt as if time itself had shattered—the end of the world.

Tucked inside his envelope, Aristophanes Smith lay upon the page, contemplating metaphysical questions. At this particular moment, he was nothing more than three stanzas of poetry penned with calligrapher's ink. Those magical ingredients that Sikander had mixed together a century ago—charred seeds of a custard apple, ashes from a water pipe smoked by a wandering dervish, soot from a genie's lamp, and a measure of gooseberry wine—provided the only physical substance out of which he was composed. In quiet moments of self-absorbed reflection, which sometimes lasted for years, the genie often wondered who he actually was. Though the ink, from which he was made, gave him shape and form, it was the poetry that brought him to life.
Am I a product of crude
chemistry? he asked himself with a philosophical grimace.
Nothing more than carbon residues emulsified with an adhesive that fixes itself upon the blank surface of a sheet of paper?
The genie shuddered at the thought.
Or … am I a product of pure language?
' he mused with a smile.
The lyrical spirit within a poet's words? A fundamental conundrum
…
Who am I and why am I here?

His thoughts were rudely interrupted as the paper was quickly taken out of the envelope and flattened on a desk by two impatient hands. Blinded by a bright electric light, the genie felt exposed and vulnerable. He heard a girl's voice rapidly reading the poem aloud. “Awake! for morning in the bowl of Night …”

Gradually, he felt himself disintegrating, the particles of India ink evaporating as the voice continued. It was a bit like feeling the circulation returning to his limbs, a tingling sensation, as if the poetry were distilled through his veins.

“Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it …”

Here was the part he never enjoyed. The girl's voice read the final line.

Poof!

Every time he materialized, the genie felt as if he were being scraped off the page. Aristo sneezed as he took on his genie's form, then straightened his lapels and made sure his cravat was correctly positioned between the starched collars of his shirt.

“Yes, m'lady. Your wish is my command!” he said with a polite cough.

Nargis, who was holding the blank sheet of paper, set it aside and stared at him suspiciously. Gil, who didn't look particularly happy today, seemed equally concerned. At the same time, Aristo became aware of two other people in the room. An older gentleman was leaning against the door frame of the study with a shocked expression on his face. The other person
was a white-haired woman who looked equally surprised. Aristo bowed toward the two adults politely.

“We need your help right away!” said Nargis.

“Of course,” the genie replied. “But allow me first to introduce myself. Aristophanes Smith. Do I have the honor of addressing Mr. Prescott Finch?”

“Yes,” said Prescott, swallowing hard, “and this is Lenore Sullivan.”

“An honor,” said Aristo. “It isn't every day one meets a distinguished poet. If you allow me, I shall recite Tennyson's ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,' one of the great monuments of nineteenth-century verse.”

“Forget it! We don't have time for that,” said Nargis.

Lenore glanced over at Prescott, her eyebrows raised.

“We need you to deliver some messages,” said Gil. “These are letters that need to go back to India, over a hundred years ago.”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly do that!” said the genie. “We have a very strict policy about tampering with history. No interference with the past. It's a cardinal rule. Absolutely forbidden!”

“Says who?” demanded Nargis. “If we can make something better, I don't see what's wrong with that. Who makes up these rules anyway?”

“It's just the way we operate, our code of conduct, established by the Fraternal Brotherhood of Djinns,” said Aristo, folding his arms and fiddling with one of his cuff links. “We don't intrude on historical events. If you change one thing, then everything else begins to change. It's a simple matter of
cause and effect. Make one thing better and a dozen other things become worse.”

“All they're asking you to do is deliver some letters,” said Lenore.

“Impossible,” said Aristo, sniffing with disdain. “After all, I'm not a common postman.”

“I thought you were supposed to do anything we asked,” said Nargis. “My wish is your command!”

“Oh, quite!” said the genie, giving her a withering glance that didn't have the desired effect.

“Well, if you're not going to help us, you might as well go back into your envelope,” said Nargis, glancing across at Gil. “And we'll toss you in the wastebasket.”

“I'm sure the spinster's hand would be happy to crumple you up and tear you to bits,” said Gil.

The genie recoiled with alarm, turning to the two adults for help, but neither of them showed any sympathy.

“Hold on … Let's not be hasty, please,” he said. “You've obviously misunderstood. I'll take your command under advisement, consider it carefully, consult my conscience and see if I can make an exception this time.”

“What's there to think about?” said Nargis. “All we want you to do is take these three letters back in history to the people who were supposed to get them in the first place. After that, it's up to them to read the letters and do what they want.”

“Let me consider it for a day or two,” said Aristo. “Mull it over in my mind. You know … make sure it doesn't infringe on protocol.”

“We don't have any time,” said Gil. “Think carefully, because if you don't agree, we haven't got any reason to keep you around.”

Aristo made a sour face. “Why can't you be like everyone else and ask for jewels, money or revenge?”

“Instead of making excuses,” said Lenore, “I think you should listen to them and do what you're told.”

“She's right, you know,” said Prescott, who still wasn't reconciled to what was going on. “And there's nothing wrong with being a postman, by the way. It's a lot more honorable than being a genie.”

“So, are you going to deliver the letters or not?” asked Nargis.

Aristo winced at the accusing tone in her voice. “First of all, let me explain that I have considered your request …”

“It's not a request,” said Gil. “It's a command.” “Of course, of course,” said the genie. “But you must understand that procedures have to be followed. We can't throw out a whole policy simply because of a sudden crisis.”

“Listen,” said Nargis. “I don't care what you think, or what policies you want to follow, we need to get these three letters delivered right away.”

She held them out in front of her insistently.

Aristo frowned. “Unfortunately, I can't carry all three of them. As I explained to you earlier, we've had to cut back on services … retrenchment, cost cutting. We've reduced the number of wishes I can grant from three to two. For that reason, I shall deliver two of the letters but not the third.”

Gil and Nargis stared at each other, then looked over at Prescott and Lenore.

“Two?” said Gil.

“Which ones?” asked Nargis.

“That's entirely up to you,” said the genie. “I wouldn't want to make that choice myself.”

“But why not three?” said Nargis. “That's not fair.”

The genie had folded his arms and shook his head decisively. Even Nargis knew he meant what he said.

“It's beyond my powers,” said Aristo.

“They're all important,” said Gil.

“Yes, but …” Nargis hesitated. “If we can stop a war, that's the most urgent one of all.”

“Sure … and the ransom note. Lawrence might be rescued instead of being killed,” said Gil. “But what about Camellia Stubbs? If Ezekiel doesn't get the letter, he'll never know she loved him.”

Lenore had moved across to where Prescott stood and now held his arm.

“If we have to leave one out, I guess it has to be the love letter,” said Nargis. “Life and death are a lot more important than love.”

The genie had averted his eyes, as if he wanted no part of this decision. Gil stared down at the carefully written script on the envelope, the flowing curves and arabesques of the spinster's hand. Just then, Nargis wrinkled her nose. The genie was already sniffing the air, and Gil wheeled around, hearing a knock at the windowpane.

In astonishment, they watched as five bony fingers pushed open the casement. A smell of lilacs and rotting flesh accompanied the disembodied hand as it hovered in front of them. Silently, the fingers moved toward the rolltop desk and settled on the piece of paper from which the genie had arisen. The knuckles cracked and the bones tapped softly, as if waiting for someone to make the next move. With a look of alarm, the genie had drawn back.

“I don't believe this …,” Prescott muttered under his breath.

“You haven't got much choice,” Lenore whispered as she squeezed his arm.

Nargis passed Aristo the letters one by one. First he took the coded message from Hermes. Then the scribbled ransom note. Aristo slid these into the pocket of his waistcoat. Camellia's letter remained in Nargis's hand. She held it out as the genie began to shake his head.

Snapping her fingers, the spinster's hand lifted the sheet of paper on which the genie's verses had been written. Very slowly and deliberately she began to crumple it up. The paper made a dry, rustling sound.

“Wait!” said the genie. Reluctantly, he took the third letter from Nargis and turned toward the hand. A crooked, skeletal finger beckoned the genie back onto the page. Without another word, Aristophanes Smith dissolved into ink dust and fell upon the crumpled paper. The hand then folded the poem along its original creases and stuffed it into the envelope, before carrying it through the open window.