Ghost Letters (5 page)

“What do I do?” Gil asked.

“Just rub the charcoal over the paper, as if you were coloring it in … evenly, but not too hard,” Prescott said.

As Gil began to darken the surface of the paper with charcoal, there wasn't much to see at first, except for the uneven texture of the rock. Then suddenly he noticed a few characters emerge, contrasting shapes and lines beneath the sooty layer of charcoal. As he filled the rest of the paper in, he could see three lines of writing in a language he didn't recognize. Each of the
lines was broken off, where the stone ended, a cryptic fragment chiseled into the rock.

“What is it?” he asked his grandfather.

“An imperial edict written more than two thousand years ago,” said Prescott.

“Can you read it?” Gil asked, removing the paper from the wall and holding it under the flashlight beam.

His grandfather shook his head. “No, it's in an ancient Indian language that isn't used anymore. I've had a couple of scholars look at it. They think it must be part of a proclamation written by the Indian emperor Ashoka, around 250
BC
. These edicts were erected at the boundaries of his empire.”

“That's so cool. How did it get here?”

“This must have been part of a larger rock on which the edict was carved. It probably came from the eastern coast of India. Somebody broke it into pieces, or maybe it just eroded. By coincidence, the stone fragments were used as ballast in Ezekiel's ships a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Gil stared in amazement at the crooked letters on the
paper. It was like seeing the ghost of a dead language that he had rubbed off the stone.

“It's a message of peace and nonviolence,” Prescott went on to explain. “Almost all of Ashoka's edicts forbid the killing of living things. He wrote his edicts after a terrible battle in which thousands of men died at a place called Kalinga. When Ashoka saw the destruction of war, he decided never to shed blood again.”

“Are there any more inscriptions?” Gil asked, peering into the shadows of the cellar.

“No,” said Prescott. “Not that I can find. It's possible that other fragments are hidden in the rocks, though we'd have to take the whole house apart to find them. But there's one other thing I'll show you.”

Picking his way through the stack of paint cans and empty crates, Prescott moved aside a couple of boards piled against the wall. Once again, he helped Gil position another blank sheet of paper over a foundation stone. This one was smoother, with a more polished surface. As Gil began to rub the charcoal, a geometric shape appeared. Instead of words, he saw the design of an eight-pointed star, made of two squares overlapping. At the center of the star was a symbol that looked like a stick figure with horns. When he finished rubbing, Gil pulled the sheet of paper away from the wall and squinted at the stone. Although the pattern on the paper was clear and unmistakable, he could barely make out the chiseled shapes on the dark surface of the rock. Yet, as he traced their outlines with one finger, the emblem was etched in his mind.

“The symbol of Mercury,” Prescott explained, “the smallest planet in our solar system. In mythology, Mercury is the mischievous messenger of the night sky and conductor of the dead. The Egyptians called him Hap. The Babylonians called him Nabu. In Hindu mythology, he's known as Budha or Naradha. For the Greeks he was Hermes, who carried a winged staff entwined with two serpents. That symbol was adapted by the Romans, who called him Mercury.”

“Why's it carved on this stone?” Gil asked.

Prescott shook his head. “I wish I knew the answer to that,” he said. “It doesn't seem to have any connection to the edict, and none of the scholars I've consulted can explain why it's here, except that Roman traders came to India in the first century
BC
. One of them may have carved it on this stone.”

Today had been the worst day of Nargis's life. When she got up in the morning she couldn't find the clothes she wanted to wear. After she finally decided on a sweatshirt and jeans, she spilled orange juice on herself during breakfast and had to change again. Then her bicycle had a flat tire, so she had to walk to school and got there late. Her homeroom teacher scolded her for coming in after the bell. During her second period social studies class, Nargis flunked a pop quiz. Later, she went to get a drink and the water fountain sprayed all over her. And in PE, she got hit in the face playing dodgeball and her nose began to bleed. When she went to the infirmary, the nurse wasn't there and she waited in the hall with blood dripping all over her clothes. But the final straw was at lunch, when the only vegetarian food in the cafeteria was tofu burgers and green Jell-O, which Nargis hated. Right after she got her food, somebody tripped her in the line. She dropped her tray on the floor and everyone laughed at her. About that time, Nargis
remembered the chain letter and wondered if this was happening to her because of the curse.

When school was finally over, Nargis walked over to Gil's house. She hadn't been able to talk to anyone about the skeletal hand, and it was still bothering her. Her friends at school would never have believed her, and she knew it was better to keep it to herself. When Nargis arrived at the Yankee Mahal, Gil was only too glad to go for a walk. He'd been stuck indoors all day. After showing him the edict in the cellar, his grandfather had given him an old history book to read. (“To further your education,” Prescott had said.) It was so boring, Gil kept falling asleep.

He and Nargis took Kipling with them to the park, though this time the dog stayed on the leash.

“I wonder if we should go back to the town dump and have another look,” said Nargis. “Maybe the hand is back in the mailbox.”

“Probably not,” said Gil.

“You definitely saw it, didn't you?” said Nargis, trying to reassure herself.

“Of course,” said Gil. “We both saw it. And we smelled it too.”

They were quiet for a while, walking across the park. Finally Nargis spoke.

“Why aren't you in school?” she asked, once they'd crossed the hill and were heading toward the ice pond.

“I got kicked out,” said Gil.

For a few seconds Nargis didn't say anything.

“From where?”

“McCauley Prep,” he said. “It's a snotty boarding school in Connecticut. Anyway, I didn't like it there.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Seventh.”

“So am I,” said Nargis.

“My parents want to put me in another prep school, but if I miss too much, I might have to repeat a year,” Gil said, kicking a leaf on the grass.

“Why did you get expelled?” Nargis asked.

Gil looked away, toward the flock of geese.

“Plagiarism,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was supposed to write a poem but I left it until it was too late. The night before it was due, I looked up some random poetry online and copied it. I know I shouldn't have done it—a dumb idea, but that's what happened …” Gil shrugged.

“And they threw you out of school for that?” said Nargis. “Wouldn't they have suspended you or given you a warning first?”

“McCauley Prep makes a big deal about academic honesty,” said Gil. “At first they were going to have this whole hearing and make me answer questions, but I said, ‘Look. I cheated. I admit it. I won't do it again.' I thought maybe if I was honest about what I'd done, they'd give me a break. But the headmaster told me plagiarism is a crime against literature … as if it were something like murder. Anyway, it's over and I'm glad to be out of there.”

“What was the poem?” Nargis asked.

“It's by Lewis Carroll, from
Through the Looking-Glass.
I guess I should have known my teacher might recognize it:

‘“In winter, when the fields are white,

I sing this song for your delight—

“In spring when woods are getting green,

I'll try and tell you what I mean—

“In summer, when the days are long,

Perhaps you'll understand this song:

“In autumn, when the leaves are brown,

Take pen and ink, and write it down.”'

“You memorized it?” said Nargis.

“There's no way I'll ever forget it now,” said Gil. “Those lines are stuck in my head.”

By this time, they had reached the ice pond. While Kipling sniffed at the goose dung by the shore, they could see trout feeding on the surface. The water was dimpled at places, almost as if it were starting to rain.

“So, where are you from?” said Gil, trying to change the subject.

“Here,” said Nargis. “Carville.”

“No, I mean, originally?”

“I was born in America, but my parents came from India.”

“That's cool.”

“I guess,” said Nargis. “Sometimes people just can't figure it out. One of my teachers thought I was adopted. Others talk to me as if I don't speak English. And of course, nobody can pronounce my name.”

“Naar-giss,” said Gil.

“That's pretty close.”

“What does it mean?” he asked.

She made a face. “It means ‘narcissus.' But my parents chose it because it's the name of a famous Indian movie star.”

“There's nothing wrong with Nargis,” said Gil.

“I don't like it. Parents always choose the stupidest names. It isn't fair.”

“Well, maybe you could shorten it, like me.”

“What's your full name?” she said.

Gil picked up a stone and skipped it across the surface of the pond, scaring the geese.

“Forget it,” he said.

“Come on!”

“Okay, but this is embarrassing,” he said. “You see, my mother spent a year abroad in France when she was in college, so she thinks she's
très
European. She named me Gilbert—pronounced ‘Jill-bear.' I changed it before I got to kindergarten, but sometimes she still tries to call me that.”

“Jill-bear,” said Nargis, laughing.

“You see, I shouldn't have told you,” said Gil.

“Don't worry, I promise I won't call you that again,” she said, trying to keep a straight face.

Suddenly, without any warning, Kipling began to bark and started straining at the leash, his hackles raised. Gil almost fell over before he steadied himself and pulled Kip back. The flock of geese took to the air in alarm, their wings beating together like muffled applause.

“What is it?” said Gil, holding Kip's leash with both hands as the dog kept barking.

“Look over there,” said Nargis, pointing toward a line of leafless trees. “Somebody walking …”

Gil peered across the park, but all he could see was a shadowy figure disappearing into the gray blur of tree trunks and bare branches.

“Who was it?” he asked.

Nargis shook her head. “It looked like a postman,” she said, “carrying a bag. But why would he be here?”

A rough dirt path zigzags up the ridge through an undulating maze of neatly trimmed tea bushes. Sikander and Lawrence pass groups of pickers with bamboo baskets strapped to their backs. The two boys carry their fishing rods, and Lawrence has a satchel slung over one shoulder. It is warm, even at eight in the morning. A few tall trees, most of their branches trimmed, grow amidst the garden but offer little shade. Half a mile on ahead, they can see where the jungle begins, a dense, wild wall of foliage that rises up steeply to the crest of the ridge.

“I bet I can get to the forest before you!” says Lawrence, starting to run.

“Hey!” Sikander shouts after him. “You're cheating. You got a head start!” He chases after Lawrence. Even though his friend has a ten-yard lead, Sikander begins to catch up. Racing along the path, they come to a series of switchbacks that zigzag up to the boundary of the tea estate. Instead of following the
trail, Sikander scrambles straight up the hill. He nearly drops his fishing rod but gets ahead of Lawrence and reaches the trees first.

“Now look who's cheating,” Lawrence yells. Both of them are laughing and gasping for breath.

Sikander sits down on a tree root as Lawrence takes out his canteen. He has a drink of water, then passes it to his friend. Looking down across the expanse of tea gardens, he can just make out the red tin roof of his home, a bungalow built on a spur of the ridge overlooking the Magor River. Beyond this lie the white domes of the maharajah's palace and the rooftops of Ajeebgarh. Much farther off, in the distance, they can see the British encampment, line upon line of tents and columns of smoke.

“Do you think there's going to be a war?” Sikander asks in a serious voice.

“My father says there might be,” Lawrence answers, “unless the maharajah agrees to the British demands.”

“What do they want him to do?” Sikander takes another sip of water.