The Boundless (19 page)

“But that's not the plan!”

Mr. Dorian regards him calmly. “I wouldn't advise it, William. You have no ticket, no passport to get between cars. They won't let you through. Even if they did, you can be sure Brogan's men are watching—and it seems to me he's been talking this up with Drurie, and maybe other porters too. They're on the lookout for a murderer, and they'll report anything suspicious back to Brogan. You're safest to wait with us until we reach first class.”

“It's only two more nights, Will,” Maren reminds him. She seems genuinely concerned. “You're safest with us.”

Chewing his lip, Will looks again at the door. What if Brogan tries to steal the key from his father and there's a fight? His father is strong, but how good is he with his fists—or against a knife? In his stories he mentioned breaking up plenty of fights. If he could survive three years working the rails, he can handle the likes of Brogan.

“All right,” he says, dragging his eyes away from the door. He's still worried about his father, and he's also terrified of performing. Never in his life has he done something like this. In school when he had to speak before the class, he dreaded it for days beforehand. And on the day itself he felt such intense horror walking up before the other students that he thought he might pass out. Every useful thought and word flew from his head.

“It'll be fine,” Maren whispers as though reading his mind. “You're not Will Everett anymore. You're someone completely different. That's the wonderful thing about performing—it's not even you up there. It's someone who has amazing skills and power you never dreamed you could have.”

For a flash he feels it again, the freedom of inhabiting another body that isn't quite his own.

“You're going to love it,” Maren tells him.

*   *   *

Brogan strides with ease across the tops of the cars, heading forward. This is his terrain, this constantly moving, jostling road, and he knows its every landmark. He's as sure-footed as a mountain goat, despite a limp.

The limp's not from blasting or laying steel. Years he spent working the railway. Men died around him all the time, especially the Chinamen, but he was charmed. He was the best blaster around, and he wasn't injured until the very last day when the sasquatch grabbed his leg and hurled him into the gorge. He should have been killed. But there was a bit of scrub on the cliff face and he grabbed hold and stayed put, invisible, until the coast was clear. Then he climbed back and limped his way over the mountain to make a new identity for himself. A new name was all it took.

Brogan doesn't know if the Everett boy is on or off the train. Maybe the kid did fall off that night. All Brogan knows is there's no way he's going back into those Zirkus cars with that sasquatch around. There's not much he's afraid of, but those beasts turn his insides to liquid.

It doesn't matter, though. There's another key. The drunken fool of a guard told him so.

Brogan reaches the front of first class and drops down onto the platform. Brakemen aren't supposed to enter first-class cars. He stands out; he's not dressed pretty, but he'll be quick.

He steps into the elegant carriage and sticks his head into the steward's office. Empty. On the wall is a board of stateroom keys, all neatly labeled for the trip. He sees the one marked
EVERETT
and takes it. The stateroom is the first one down. He's inside in two seconds.

He listens, but there's no one moving about upstairs. He moves to the rolltop desk and starts pulling open drawers, sifting through papers. Nothing. Checking every surface, every shelf and cubbyhole, he moves through the parlor and then upstairs.

The main bedroom looks as though it hasn't been slept in. He checks through the chest of drawers without any luck. Then the boy's room. Same.

He's in a rage, wanting to slam and break the room apart. He takes a moment to calm his breathing.

The only other key must be on James Everett's body.

He leaves the room as he found it, exits the car, and climbs to the roof.

It will be bloodier. But there's no going back now.

His new plan assembles itself with each step of his long journey back.

*   *   *

Will peeks through the gap in the curtains.

The Boundless is moving again, and with all the passengers back aboard, the car seems impossibly full. On either side of the makeshift stage, people are sitting on the floor, in one another's laps, perching on one another's shoulders, dangling off the dangerously sagging berths.

Onstage Mr. Dorian has just mesmerized a fellow who chirps like a bird. The crowd laughs uproariously.

Will lets the curtain fall into place, and swallows.

“You all right?” Maren whispers to him.

He nods. He doesn't want to talk.

Four portraits—that's all he has to draw. But he feels like he might throw up. In his pocket his hand finds the sasquatch tooth, and he rubs its pitted surface.

“I'll be with you the whole time,” she says, and gives his hand a squeeze. For a moment he's distracted by the touch of her skin against his, but then Mr. Dorian's voice rings out his cue.

“And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, you are about to witness a most curious thing. Throughout history there have been gifted artists who can draw a portrait—but could any of them draw a portrait without setting eyes on their subject? The young man you are about to meet was born in the kingdom of India and studied many years to hone his gift. Four lucky people in this audience will be chosen to have their portraits drawn. I introduce to you Amit, the spirit artist!”

Will doesn't hear most of this. It's just a rattle of words in his head. Maren's gentle nudge tells him he's on. He swallows and walks out. Mercifully he has only a brief moment to see the audience, a solid mass of bodies and heads and expectant heat. He's glad when Maren leads him to the stool and he sits, facing the wall.

“Who will be the first to be drawn?” Mr. Dorian asks.

A veritable roar consumes the carriage.

“You, sir, come forward, please. Stand here. That's it, directly behind him. Now behold. To make sure he cannot see a thing . . .”

On cue Maren holds the scarf in front of the audience. She walks behind Will to tie it around the face of the volunteer.

“Can you see anything, sir?” Mr. Dorian asks.

“
Nyet.
No
thing
!”

“Bind our spirit artist, then,” says Mr. Dorian, “and let him begin!”

The scarf is wound around Will's head. He can see through it perfectly. He reaches out blindly with his hands, and Maren gives him his sketchbook and pencil. Then she takes a few paces back and stands in front of him.

He focuses on the ingenious mirrored sequins on Maren's dress. Together they form a kind of mosaic. It's not a perfect image by any means, but it's enough. Will and Maren agreed on a system beforehand. He scratches his ear, she turns to the right; he taps his foot, she turns to the left. He sees the face of the man. A rectangle of solid flesh and bone. A single heavy eyebrow.

Will is nervous and worries they'll see his hand shaking, but he remembers his childhood trick. His eye is the pencil. And so he starts, traveling this little landscape of wrinkles and curves, shading here and there. He works quickly, knowing he cannot let the audience wait too long.

It is not good work, but after one minute Mr. Dorian whisks the portrait away and holds it before the audience.

“Is not the likeness amazing!” he cries.

There is a healthy murmur of approval, then clapping, and then a crush of people, pushing forward to be next. Will does another, more confidently now. In the reflection of Maren's sequins, he glimpses the look of delight when the woman is given her sketch. She shows it to her husband and children. She does not even want to fold it. He wonders if she's ever had her photograph taken.

Two more, and then quite suddenly he is done, taking his bow, buffeted by applause. When he and Maren step back behind the curtain, he feels ignited, unable to stand still.

Maren laughs. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“I
liked
it!” It's so noisy all around them, he has no fear of being overheard.

“Told you. You'll join the circus yet!”

“Do you get nervous anymore?” he asks.

“Sometimes.”

When Maren is called out to do her act, Will watches intently through a gap in the curtain.

She is calm and poised. In her hand she holds a compact spool, like something you'd see on a fishing rod. As she turns the small handle, wire begins to pay out rigidly in a horizontal line. At its end is a small grappling hook. Round and round she turns the wheel, and the line stretches out. The audience shuffles out of the way as it passes them. Will has never seen such a device, a little magic trick in itself. When the line reaches all the way across the carriage, Maren gives a little twist of her wrist, and the hooked end grips a ledge about three feet up the wall.

Maren then runs to the opposite end of the carriage, paying out more line, and hooks the spool to the wall there. She has created her own tightrope down the middle of the car. She springs onto it, her head nearly grazing the ceiling.

The crowd gives a great cheer. Once on the wire, Maren is like a person transformed. He suddenly doesn't know her at all. He can only stare in amazement as she skips across the wire, does somersaults, closes her eyes and walks backward, lies down on her stomach and pretends to fall asleep.

Despite all the good cheer of the crowd, Will notices how some of the men look at her, a furtive hungry look he doesn't like.

Maren invites people to toss things up at her, and she catches them one after another: a hat, a bottle, a sausage—and proceeds to juggle them all. After throwing the objects back to their rightful owners, she hops down, unhooks her tightrope, and cartwheels down the aisle to the stage.

It's time for the disappearing act. Will watches as chains are placed upon her by an audience member and she is covered by a giant scarf. He stares hard, wanting to understand the trick—and nearly jumps out of his skin when she taps him on the shoulder behind the curtain.

“How do you do that?” he demands.

“I'll never tell,” she replies, rosy-cheeked and breathless.

He wishes he could draw her just like that.

Mr. Dorian pulls back the curtain to reveal all of them, and there is a tsunami of applause. Even those lucky men and women who had seats are now on their feet, clapping and shouting “Bravo” and “Brava” and other words Will doesn't understand. A dizzying happiness blossoms inside him.

The audience surges toward them, and Will is worried they'll be crushed. They're all three taken hold of, and hoisted up onto shoulders and carried out of the car into another, where there is a stove, covered with pots.

Bundles are moved, people shift, and Will finds himself eased onto a bench beside Maren. She looks as bewildered as he feels. Scarcely has he been seated, when a bowl of food is put on his lap, and a spoon into his hand. And Will understands they have been invited to dinner.

The food smells delicious, but he's hardly taken a mouthful before people are touching him, and asking him questions in different languages. He knows he mustn't reply in English, so he only smiles and nods, and sometimes repeats the few Hindi words he's memorized.

Across the sea of heaving bodies, he sees someone who looks Indian, trying to reach him. What if the man wants to talk to Will? He'll be found out! Luckily, musical instruments suddenly appear. Strange stringed things, mouth harps, a contraption that looks a bit like an accordion.

The colonists are putting on their own show now, maybe as a way of thanking the performers. Will feels a bit smushed and deafened, but it is all so good-natured that he doesn't mind too much.

A drink is thrust into his hand, and the man looks at him so expectantly that Will doesn't see he has any choice but to slug it back. It sears all the way down his throat. The crowd gives a cheer.

By the time the dancing starts, Will has had two more of the drinks and thinks dancing is probably the best thing in the world. He enters a sweaty web of arms and stamps about the floor, having no idea what he's doing. Nearby he sees Maren being whirled about, a dazzling colorful blur. He wants to grab hold of her, to stop her moving, to feel her skin against his hands.

And suddenly they are pressed together, and the crowd is close around them and clapping hands eagerly.

“They want us to dance,” Maren says.

He almost replies in English, tells her he can't dance, but it's too late. She's taken his hands and starts leading him in a mangled version of the waltz. After a few steps he tries to lead, and stamps on her feet, and then she leads again, and before long they are both laughing helplessly.

A woman's cry of dismay suddenly cuts through the music. The instruments stop. There's a flurry of harsh words. The crowd shifts, angling itself in the direction of the noise.

Will looks over to see one of Mr. Peters's burly guards. He towers over a shorter man, whose face is flushed and furrowed with outrage. A woman, maybe his wife, is shouting at the guard, while a small boy watches, clinging to her side, his face pale with fear.

The guard shoves the other man against the wall, reaches inside his jacket, and pulls out a slender bottle. The man tries to grab it back, but the guard strikes him across the face.

For a moment everyone in the car is silent. Then several other colonists shout out and move aggressively toward the guard, but Peters's man primes his rifle, and the passengers halt and step out of his way.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Dorian asks the guard as he passes.

“Nothing to do with you,” grunts the man, and leaves the carriage.

The woman is crying openly now.

“Their boy is sick,” a man says to Dorian. “Mr. Peters sells medicine. The father of boy has not money to pay. Mr. Peters gives medicine but wants money later. The father tries to sell something to makes money, but is no good. Now Peters takes back medicine.”