Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œI bet I can get to the forest before you!” says Lawrence, starting to run.
    â€œHey!” 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 thetrail, Sikander scrambles straight up the hill. He nearly drops his fishing rod but gets ahead of Lawrence and reaches the trees first.
    â€œNow 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.
    â€œDo you think there’s going to be a war?” Sikander asks in a serious voice.
    â€œMy father says there might be,” Lawrence answers, “unless the maharajah agrees to the British demands.”
    â€œWhat do they want him to do?” Sikander takes another sip of water.
    â€œHe’s supposed to remove his picture from the postage stamps,” said Lawrence. “You can only have pictures of Queen Victoria, the Empress of India. But my father says that’s just an excuse. They’re actually worried about the Russians. Supposedly they’re trying to negotiate for all the tea from Ajeebgarh to go to Moscow.”
    â€œIt looks as if there’s enough tea for everyone,” Sikander says, scanning the gardens below. Putting the canteen back inhis satchel, Lawrence gets to his feet and continues up the ridge. Now that the path winds its way through the shadows of the trees, it is cooler. There are birdcalls overhead, the noisy cackle of hornbills and the persistent, maddening cry of a brain fever bird.
    Half an hour later, Sikander and Lawrence cross a saddle of the ridge, from where they can see a tiny lake called Ambital, cupped in a hollow of the ridge. It’s shaped like a paisley design, rounded at one end and tapering to a curlicue where a mountain stream flows out of a ravine.
    Sikander pauses to see if any trout are feeding. Lawrence points to a couple of dimples on the surface of the water, but mostly it is still, a watery mirror reflecting the surrounding trees and ridges. As the boys make their way to the water’s edge, they come upon a rectangular slab of marble, a tombstone covered with lichens and moss. Lawrence kneels down and runs his fingers over the carved letters.
    Sacred
to the memory of
EZEKIEL FINCH
    M ARCH 12, 1802—A UGUST 18, 1879
    Come live with mee, and bee my love,
And wee will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands and christall brookes,
With silken lines, and silver hookes.
    J OHN D ONNE
    Grass and ground orchids frame the lonely tombstone. Sikander picks up his fishing rod and checks the knot that holds the hook. Lawrence chooses a brass flyspoon from his tackle box and ties it on. He knows there are trout in the lake, but the last two times they have