The Boundless (18 page)

If he is, it looks like he'll be disappointed. As they tramp along the gravel, Will spots several brakemen smoking atop boxcars, or inspecting the couplings—but they keep their distance.

The afternoon air carries the cold promise of snow. They're farther north now, and the trees are spindlier. The ground is rocky and grudging. There's no sign of a town in the distance—or the noise of a trackside market. Will figures the stop is too short, or there just aren't enough people in Kirkton.

With Maren at his side, Will walks after Mr. Dorian, trying not to appear too hasty. One car after another they make their way forward. Even with Mr. Beauprey nearby, Will worries they'll be confronted by Brogan and his cohort any second.

It seems incredible to him he hasn't been recognized. His face is the same shape, his eyes the same color. But he supposes people never look that closely at things. As Mr. Dorian might say,
We're easily fooled by our eyes
.

Still, Will is pretty sure some of the brakemen are staring hard at him as he passes. Maybe they're just curious about all the circus performers. The brakemen can't
all
be working for Brogan, but judging by the crew that broke into the circus cars, there are plenty—and how can Will tell the honest from the wicked?

His disguise isn't the only thing he's worried about. He has to remember not to speak when they're around other people, which will be pretty much all the time. He's quiet by nature, so maybe it will be easier than he thinks. But he's not so shy around Maren, which is one of the reasons he likes her so much.

As they make their way, Mr. Beauprey cheerfully bellows out the names of all the different types of trees, and the birds flitting between their branches. From the roof of a livestock car, a brakeman wolf-whistles at Maren.

“Come whistle for me, you brazen fiend!” Mr. Beauprey roars up at him. The brakeman cringes and slinks away.

Maren doesn't seem at all bothered. Will realizes she must be used to this kind of attention. For the first time he understands what a rough world this must be for a girl. Without her parents, too. At least she has her brothers, but they won't be with her for the next few days. Just Mr. Dorian—and him—but it seems little protection against the rough men along the steel road.

He glances over at her. He has no doubt she's good at taking care of herself, but the thought comes into his head suddenly:
I would like to protect her
. He almost laughs at himself. Isn't she the one protecting him? He wishes he could talk to her. There are still a lot of things he wants to tell her, and ask her. Three years' worth of questions. He contents himself with studying her profile. She has a very interesting nose.

They round a bend in the track, and up ahead Will sees a huge crowd. There are no vendors or stalls, just colonists stretching their legs and taking the air alongside the train.

From the rear of the last colonist car, a handsome young porter appears on the steps. Will feels a surge of relief at the sight of him, looking crisp and official in his Boundless uniform.

“Would you be Mr. Dorian?” he asks the ringmaster.

“I would.”

“My name's Thomas Drurie. We're expecting you. If I might just see your passport, sir.”

“Of course.” Mr. Dorian produces a paper booklet and hands it to Drurie.

The porter glances up at Maren and Will.

“And what're your names, please?”

“Maren Amberson.”

Drurie looks at Will with some suspicion. “And you?”

Mr. Dorian says, “That is Amit Sen, our spirit artist. He understands a little English but speaks none.”

“What does he speak?”

“Hindi,” says the ringmaster.

“
,” says Will politely, just as he was coached by one of the performers an hour before.

Drurie's eyes widen. “What did he just say?”

“He apologized for not speaking English,” says Mr. Dorian.

“And the . . .
large
gentleman?” Drurie asks with some concern.

“Mr. Eugene Beauprey. He won't be accompanying us.”

“Excellent. Please come aboard.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beauprey,” Maren says, and gives the giant a hug around his trunklike waist.

“I will see you in Lionsgate City, Little Wonder,” he replies fondly. He gives one last fierce look around, as if daring anyone to bother her, then starts back to the Zirkus Dante cars, whistling.

Will boards. He remembers being squished into third class when he was younger, but he's never seen anything quite like this. At first he thinks it must be the baggage car, for there are so many
things
everywhere, suitcases and sacks and oddly-shaped bundles trussed up with twine. But amongst it all there are people—far too many to count! Even though many passengers are still outside, the place feels impossibly full.

The smell barrages Will. Sausage and unlaundered clothes, and the reek of an overused toilet. Pickles, sweat, wet boots, and incense all add to the din of smell.

On either side of a narrow aisle are rows of bare wooden benches. An old man bounces a crying baby on his knee, singing a nursery rhyme in another language. Four men have their heads bowed over a game of cards. An anxious woman counts rosary beads. Between two fellows is spread a map, and they are stabbing their fingers at it and arguing.

And above these wooden benches are two levels of pull-down berths. On one a mother and a baby sleep curled up together; on another a burly man picks at his big toe. Two boys leap between berths while a mother hollers at them from the floor. Threadbare blankets and lumpy makeshift pillows are scattered everywhere. There is scarcely room to move. More children bound down and up the aisle, and clamber over the backs of the bench seats, making a playground of the carriage. The only light comes from narrow windows, high up near the ceiling, and a few oil lamps secured to the walls.

Slowly at first, and then more quickly, people start to notice Will and the others.

“Circus . . .”

“Zirkus . . .”

“Sirkuksen . . .
”

“Cirkuszi . . .”

The word whispers and slithers itself through the car in all different languages. Most of the people look glad. A few shrink back as the trio passes. A small girl cries at the sight of Mr. Dorian in his severe black top hat and coat—until the ringmaster pulls a lollipop from his pocket and hands it to her. Suddenly the performers have a trail of children, their hands tugging, eyes imploring. More lollipops and jawbreakers appear from the ringmaster's bottomless pockets. Applause and cheers ring out from the passengers.

“You'll need to clear this aisle,” Drurie calls out pointlessly, for no one heeds him. “You can't have all this here! It must be cleared of obstructions! Is that a chicken?”

A stove blazes in the center of the car. No fewer than seven pots sputter atop it. Will supposes this is how they eat: You cook when the stove's free and take your meals whenever you can.

“Is there just the one stove?” Maren asks Drurie.

He looks at her with a confused smile and ignores her question as if it isn't even worth consideration.

“I'm sorry you have to pass through all this,” Drurie says to Mr. Dorian. “It's rather ripe in here.”

“Not surprising,” Mr. Dorian remarks tartly, “as it seems they have only one washroom per car.”

As Will makes his way, he realizes these people have less room to themselves than the Zirkus Dante animals. It can't be right to have such cramped quarters when there is such luxury farther up the train. Does his father know how terrible it is back here?

“These people are fortunate to get passage on the Boundless at all,” Drurie says with a sniff. “They're the poorest of the poor, and they've washed up on the shores of our country to claim our land.”

“Interesting,” says Mr. Dorian. “My mother's people are Cree Indian. Perhaps it's people like
you
who have washed up on
our
shores. A stimulating thought, don't you think?”

Drurie clears his throat and keeps walking. “There's rumors we may have a murderer aboard,” he says, “and I'd bet anything it's one of these folks. I'd keep your eyes peeled.”

Mr. Dorian lifts his hat to a large woman in a colorful headdress. “Good day, ma'am. Now, Drurie, if you could show us to where we'll be performing.”

“We've made space for you a few cars up,” he says. “I hope it's adequate.”

“I'm sure it's more than adequate,” says Mr. Dorian.

They cross several more carriages before they reach a car with an entire section that's been curtained off at the back.

Will expects this must be the stage, but when Drurie parts the curtains, Will sees what appears to be a small shop with many shelves: loaves of pumpernickel bread, cooked hams, tins of vegetables, some fresh fruit, bars of soap, towels, various corked bottles of different shapes and colors. A finely turned-out gentlemen sitting on a cushioned bench looks up as they enter.

“Ah, you must be the entertainment for the day,” he says in what sounds to Will like an upper-crust English accent. “I'm Mr. Peters.”

Right away Will notices how amazingly clean his fingernails are—and not only clean but buffed and shaped in a perfect curve.

“You're the chief porter?” Mr. Dorian inquires.

“No, no, just a paying passenger. Isn't that right, Drurie?”

“Yes, Mr. Peters, sir,” says Drurie.

He certainly does not look like the other passengers. He has an entire corner of the carriage, the equivalent of three rows of seats, curtained off with thick drapery. At each entrance, front and back, sits a bearded man in a bulky coat, a rifle tilted against his seat.

“You're a merchant, too, by the looks of it,” says Mr. Dorian, surveying his goods.

“Well, as you know, the Boundless doesn't provide a meal service to these poor people, so I do my bit,” says Peters.

“Two dollars for a loaf of bread,” says Maren, reading the sign.

“Yes, miss.”

“It seems a lot for a loaf of bread,” she remarks.

“That's the fair market price aboard the Boundless, young miss. And before you get all holy on me, how many people of my sort do you think would choose to ride with this class of people? I do it so I can help them.”

“Ah,” says Mr. Dorian. “That is very noble of you.”

“We're just in the next car,” says Drurie, eager to lead them on.

“It's disgusting,” mutters Maren when they've left.

“Is the conductor aware there is a profiteer aboard the train?” Mr. Dorian asks Drurie, who looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“He's paid for all those seats fair and square,” says Drurie. “The passengers are happy enough to have him aboard when they need something.”

To Will it sounds like a speech he's made before. He wonders again if his father knows this is going on aboard the Boundless.

“We've had the passengers clear an area here,” Drurie says curtly, leading them into the middle of the car. Will can just imagine how the likes of Drurie would go about getting people to leave their seats. But he's surprised to be greeted only by grins, excited smiles, and more applause by all the people they've displaced.

“Thank you, thank you,” says Mr. Dorian graciously. “
Vielen Dank. Merci. Grazie.
We promise you a good show, and you shall have the best seats in the house. We begin in one hour!”

Sheets have been pegged up to form a curtain and backstage area around the several vacated rows of seats. Drurie bids them good day and exits through the door at the front of the carriage.

Will's eyes linger on that door. Beyond it there is another colonist car, and hundreds more, leading to third class, then second class and finally first. The journey is right there, ready for him to take.

“The pair of them are disgusting,” says Maren, setting down her bag behind the curtains. “Peters and that cowardly porter. It shouldn't be allowed.”

“It has always been thus,” says Mr. Dorian. “I don't see it changing.”

All around them is the din of the passengers, so Will feels he can speak in a whisper without danger.

“I'm going to tell my father. He's a fair man. He won't stand for it.”

Mr. Dorian smiles faintly. “You of all people should know how the railway was made, William. On the backs of poorly paid laborers. A dollar a day to risk your life. Less if you weren't a white man.”

“Well,” says Will stubbornly, “my father was one of those laborers. He wouldn't want to see them badly treated on his own train.”

Mentioning his father makes Will all the more impatient. “I've been thinking. . . . I can find my way from here.”

Maren looks at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You don't need me. I can make my way up front.”