Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter Page A

referred to as the Postage Stamp War.”
    Staring down at the page full of stamps, Gil could barely contain his excitement. When he looked across at Nargis, he could tell she too was thinking about Sikander.
    Prescott stopped himself for a moment and pointed to the picture on the wall, an etching of a battle scene.
    â€œHere you go,” he said. “I found this in an antiques shop a couple years back. It’s a picture from the
London Illustrated News
that shows the siege of Ajeebgarh. This was printed in 1896. You can see the maharajah’s palace in ruins.”
    Gil and Nargis squinted at the old print, which showed a lot of British officers waving their swords about and cannons spewing clouds of smoke. One of the maharajah’s soldiers was trying to fight back, but he was wounded and had fallen to one knee. Reminded of Sikander again, Gil shuddered and wondered if he was all right.
    Picking up the magnifying glass, he studied the jewels on the maharajah’s turban and the way his moustache curled up at the ends. It was definitely the same man pictured on the stamp on the genie’s envelope. Hesitating, Gil reached for the letter.
    â€œGrandpa …,” he said,“I found this today.”
    Prescott took it from him, ignoring the address and training the magnifying lens on the stamp instead.
    â€œLook at that!” he said with excitement. “It says 1896. Thecancellation mark is smudged, but you can tell by the sash he’s wearing. Where did you get this?” Prescott fixed his eyes on Gil.
    â€œUm … this morning, it arrived through the mail slot while you were away …”
    His grandfather stared at him suspiciously, then turned back to examine the stamps.
    â€œActually …,” said Gil, swallowing hard. “There’s something inside the envelope you might want to see.”
    Prescott still looked confused. He opened the paper, flattening it on the green baize surface of the desk.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he said with an interested frown, recognizing the verses.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
. He began to read the lines: “ ‘Awake! for Morning in the bowl of Night / Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight … ’”
    Gil waited for something to happen but there wasn’t any explosion or puff of smoke. When Prescott finished reading the poem, he shook his head and smiled, then went back to examining the stamp. No genie had appeared, and Gil exchanged a puzzled glance with Nargis. He took the letter and held it up to the light. The ink remained fixed to the page.

23
Salvilinus frontinalis
    Ezekiel Finch kneels beside the slate-lined tank and watches the tiny fingerlings swarming through the clear, cold water. The sight of their tapered bodies wriggling against the gentle current fills him with a feeling of satisfaction and regret.
    Late last year, on a bright November day, before he sailed from Hornswoggle Bay, Ezekiel had cast his fly line into the ice pond near his house. A fat brook trout took the fly and he played her into shore. She was full of roe, and when he held her over a basin and squeezed her belly, the eggs had squirted out like seeds from an overripe tomato. After collecting these, he released the fish back into the pond and cast again. The autumn colors in the trees were as full of gold as a pharaoh’s tomb. Within an hour, Ezekiel had landed twelve trout, most of which were ready to spawn. Finally, he had hooked a male brook trout that leapt on the surface of the pond, in a fierce struggle to throw the hook. Holding the line firmly, Ezekiel drew the fish to shore. The male trout was smaller than the others, a bright orange andmottled green, its spawning colors as gaudy as the maple leaves. In the basin, hundreds of clear trout ova were mixed with white milt from the male, just as they might have been fertilized in the pebbled shallows of the pond.
    Later, the eggs were transferred into three glass