Read Online Ghost Leopard (A Zoe & Zak Adventure #1) by Lars Guignard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lars Guignard
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to pay.”
“I know.”
“What’s you name?” I asked.
“Amala.”
“Amala,” Zak said loudly. “I like that name.”
“Do you know why we’re here, Amala?” Zak asked.
“Yes,” Amala said.
Zak turned his head to look back at us, narrowly avoiding a pole as he did.
“You’ve come to find the Leopard,” Amala said.
“No way. How did you know about that?”
“Many people seek the Leopard,” Amala said.
“Wicked,” Zak said.
“Pull to a stop there, in front of the white building.”
There was now at least a foot of water in the street and Zak braked as best as he could. The bicycle rickshaw’s brakes screeched as the water sprayed off of them. The white building had a lone lamp above the door and a cracked wooden sign hanging off the front of it. The sign’s brass letters identified the building as the Swallowtail Lodging House. The place looked like something right of a fairy tale. There was a beautiful spotted blue butterfly on the sign. The butterfly was a good size, like the one I had seen in the street and it twitched its wings gently. The same spotted blue butterflies hovered in the doorway. Though the hotel was tiny and run-down, I was pretty sure it would be dry.
“Second floor, third room on the right,” Amala said. “Please stay for the night. If you’re hungry, Sai will cook for you. Tomorrow I have a friend I’d like you to meet.”
The rickshaw wala handed me an old-fashioned brass skeleton key and a photograph. Even the key looked like something out of a fairy tale. And I haven’t even gotten to the photograph. The old streaked color photo was a picture of a guy that, to me at least, could only be described as a crazy man. The man was quite old. He was at least as old as my grandfather and his hair was a wild thicket of gray and black. He wore yellow and red face paint and his body was covered in white ash. His lips were bright red and he had what looked like a wooden necklace of brown and red beads around his neck. He sat smiling and cross-legged, and basically naked except for a lungi and a large spotted lizard on his shoulder. From what I’d read, I guessed that the man in the picture was a sadhu, the Hindi name for a holy man, or maybe a yogi which I kind of thought was the same thing. I knew a yogi was someone who did so much yoga that they somehow developed almost magical powers. I didn’t know if the guy in the picture was magical or not, but he sure looked nuts.
“His name is Mukta,” Amala said. “Take the Number Six train to Moon Surrie in the morning. You’ll find him from there.”
We sat there for a moment in the rickshaw, the rising floodwaters flowing past its tires. Zak didn’t move from the bicycle seat, so I tapped him on the shoulder. It was raining so hard that the fast-moving drops ricocheted back up off the flooded street creating a storm of white water. I could barely see Zak through the mist. Finally, Zak stepped down into the watery street. The floodwaters were already up to his shins. When I stepped down to join him, I noticed that the rickshaw wala was still there, but Amala wasn’t. I joined Zak on the steps of the hotel and, as I did, a storm of blue butterflies fluttered past me. Their wings were so soft that I felt like I was walking though a flying carpet. As they flew into the street, one of the butterflies came to rest on my hand. I admired its spotted blue wings before turning to take a final look up and down the flooded street. Amala was nowhere to be seen.
6
STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND
We ate at in a little kitchen on the bottom floor of the hotel. There was a woman there, Sai, I guess, with some noodle soup in a big blackened aluminum pot. Sai stirred the soup with a long crooked stick. I don’t know why she didn’t use a spoon, but I was too tired and hungry to ask. I’m pretty sure the soup was the Indian version of Mr. Noodles and I thought it was pretty good. I knew we didn’t have any money, so I was
“I know.”
“What’s you name?” I asked.
“Amala.”
“Amala,” Zak said loudly. “I like that name.”
“Do you know why we’re here, Amala?” Zak asked.
“Yes,” Amala said.
Zak turned his head to look back at us, narrowly avoiding a pole as he did.
“You’ve come to find the Leopard,” Amala said.
“No way. How did you know about that?”
“Many people seek the Leopard,” Amala said.
“Wicked,” Zak said.
“Pull to a stop there, in front of the white building.”
There was now at least a foot of water in the street and Zak braked as best as he could. The bicycle rickshaw’s brakes screeched as the water sprayed off of them. The white building had a lone lamp above the door and a cracked wooden sign hanging off the front of it. The sign’s brass letters identified the building as the Swallowtail Lodging House. The place looked like something right of a fairy tale. There was a beautiful spotted blue butterfly on the sign. The butterfly was a good size, like the one I had seen in the street and it twitched its wings gently. The same spotted blue butterflies hovered in the doorway. Though the hotel was tiny and run-down, I was pretty sure it would be dry.
“Second floor, third room on the right,” Amala said. “Please stay for the night. If you’re hungry, Sai will cook for you. Tomorrow I have a friend I’d like you to meet.”
The rickshaw wala handed me an old-fashioned brass skeleton key and a photograph. Even the key looked like something out of a fairy tale. And I haven’t even gotten to the photograph. The old streaked color photo was a picture of a guy that, to me at least, could only be described as a crazy man. The man was quite old. He was at least as old as my grandfather and his hair was a wild thicket of gray and black. He wore yellow and red face paint and his body was covered in white ash. His lips were bright red and he had what looked like a wooden necklace of brown and red beads around his neck. He sat smiling and cross-legged, and basically naked except for a lungi and a large spotted lizard on his shoulder. From what I’d read, I guessed that the man in the picture was a sadhu, the Hindi name for a holy man, or maybe a yogi which I kind of thought was the same thing. I knew a yogi was someone who did so much yoga that they somehow developed almost magical powers. I didn’t know if the guy in the picture was magical or not, but he sure looked nuts.
“His name is Mukta,” Amala said. “Take the Number Six train to Moon Surrie in the morning. You’ll find him from there.”
We sat there for a moment in the rickshaw, the rising floodwaters flowing past its tires. Zak didn’t move from the bicycle seat, so I tapped him on the shoulder. It was raining so hard that the fast-moving drops ricocheted back up off the flooded street creating a storm of white water. I could barely see Zak through the mist. Finally, Zak stepped down into the watery street. The floodwaters were already up to his shins. When I stepped down to join him, I noticed that the rickshaw wala was still there, but Amala wasn’t. I joined Zak on the steps of the hotel and, as I did, a storm of blue butterflies fluttered past me. Their wings were so soft that I felt like I was walking though a flying carpet. As they flew into the street, one of the butterflies came to rest on my hand. I admired its spotted blue wings before turning to take a final look up and down the flooded street. Amala was nowhere to be seen.
6
STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND
We ate at in a little kitchen on the bottom floor of the hotel. There was a woman there, Sai, I guess, with some noodle soup in a big blackened aluminum pot. Sai stirred the soup with a long crooked stick. I don’t know why she didn’t use a spoon, but I was too tired and hungry to ask. I’m pretty sure the soup was the Indian version of Mr. Noodles and I thought it was pretty good. I knew we didn’t have any money, so I was
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