The Law of Dreams

by Peter Behrens

“I’d take you on myself if I was any younger, just to see you box,” the contractor said thoughtfully, putting his hands in his pockets and going inside.

  SOON THEY were inside. The atmosphere was rich and warm with tobacco smoke, burned fat, the stench of beer. He watched her step up to the table with Muldoon, who received his pay and exchanged the lodgers’ sub tickets, sweeping the stacks of coins into his pocket then heading for the bar.

  Molly stood by the pay table to collect tobacco money from her lodgers as they took their wages.

  When it was his turn to step up to the pay table, he couldn’t stop smiling.

  She ignored him.

  “Name?” the timer barked.

  Surprised the man didn’t remember, he gave his name. The timer studied the ledger and made a scratch. “Three-and-six on twenty days, less three subs, nine shillings each, with no other debts outstanding, equals two pounds five shillings.” The little man piled the coins into neat stacks and slid them across the table. “Pay is made. Next!”

  “Three shillings tobacco money.” Molly was holding out her hand. “Pay up, man, before you drink it all away.”

  You are the brilliant, he thought, watching her pick the coins from his palm.

  She was good at disguise, at concealment. They would be strong together. She wasn’t so bold as him, but more deft.

  You are the light.

  She took her money and moved away. As she was leaving the beer shop, he saw her standing next to Muck in a crowd of shouting, drinking gangers and wives. One of the other women was giving her a light for her pipe. Muck was starting his spree; soon he’d be insensible.

  No one will ever hurt you worse than I will.

  Goodbye you devil.

  The Bout

  EVER SINCE THE SCATTERING, he had often wondered if he was still alive, or if the days and nights so strange and wild were actually the world of the dead.

  He’d felt dead in the workhouse and in the Night Asylum. On the bog, his scalpeen, when he slept alone, had smelled very close to the grave. He could have been dead wandering the weird stone streets of Liverpool.

  With a girl you knew you weren’t.

  He caught the blue and led him inside, rubbed the frost off his back and slipped on a bridle. There was no saddle.

  The feed bins were open, and he gave the horse a pan of oats.

  Sitting on the anvil, smoking his pipe, he watched the animal noisily feeding. He could hear the other horses outside, clacking in the mud.

  He loved the blue, despite the horse’s unrelenting meanness, his wicked sense of himself, his determination to bite the hand that fed him. He loved it that the blue owned himself.

  Feeling unusually content, he smoked through three pipefuls. It was as though he had never really wanted to get away with her after all, but would be content to wait in the stable forever with the horse who, finishing his oats, stood whisking his tail impatiently.

  As though the dream of leaving — leaving with her — were enough.

  What was the world, except scent, feel, light? Was there something touchable in sorrow, loneliness? He could almost feel the past in his hands — warm, weighty, like a spade of earth from a good, loamy field.

  Hearing footsteps approaching, crackling through the icy mud outside, he stood up.

  That moment when you join your life, you’re thrilled. Your head spins. You feel a little sick.

  The stable door opened with a groan.

  “Molly?”

  “Jesus!”

  It was McCarty, peering into the dark.

  “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  “It’s me — Fergus.”

  McCarty snorted. “Idiot! You give me a spook —”

  “Where’s Molly?”

  “Fuck, you give me a scare. I’ve shat meself . . . oh mercy. Mr. Murdoch is looking for you, man. You would have half a crown, but they have given it to me instead. Jesus I’m jingling tonight I swear.” McCarty took a coin from his waistcoat pocket, flipped it, and caught it with a slap.

  “Where is Molly?”

  “Scare the gas out of me, you did.” McCarty kissed his coin then peered at Fergus. “Muck’s going to fight your horse. It is all arranged.”

  “What?”

  “No one will stand up with Muck, and we need a blaster. Fellows are wagering like mad. Mr. Murdoch sent me to fetch him. Everyone likes a good fight, so.”

  “Where’s Molly?”

  “Having a time with the Moll, are you?” McCarty shook his head. “Beware, Fergus. Remember old Kelly.”

  “We’re going away.”

  McCarty shook his head slowly. “Kelly was taking her away — for America. Only Muck found out. Next time we saw Kelly, he was dead, and Muck had her washing him down.” McCarty unwrapped the halter from the post. “No, give it up, Fergus, Muck will never let her go; he will snap you. Listen — you can hear the fellows yelling from here. Nothing like a Pay for stirring up. And Muck knocked down that horse in France, he did.” McCarty started leading the blue from the barn. “One good crack. That’s all it took — here, you devil, none of that!”

  The horse, writhing, had tried to bite his arm and he gave the strap a vigorous jerk, then held it out to Fergus. “Here, you lead the fucker.”

  He took the strap, feeling disarrayed, disarmed by confusion, and for the first time, vulnerable. Had Muck somehow learned of their plan?

  He could hear the noise down in camp, men roaring. He could ride away, but he knew he couldn’t leave her, so he started after McCarty along the muddy path.

  Sometimes you walk in the dark aware of everything you have lost, and you feel lost, but you just keep going, because you haven’t the strength to stop or turn back or run away.

  THE NAVVIES had formed a ring to watch a pair of wrestlers grappling, but when the crowd saw Fergus leading the blue horse they began shouting and whistling. Drenched with mud, the wrestlers gave up their match and stood back as he led the fuming horse into the ring. The night air was greasy with smoke from torches, and the blue bleated and tossed his head nervously, spooked at the flickering lights.

  Something made you do this: hunger, desire, a sense you had to gamble everything to win.

  Molly was beside Muldoon, who began taking off his coat. Fergus kept looking at her until she met his eye and gave a little shrug.

  He struggled to hold the horse steady while Muck began prancing in his corner, cutting the air with punches.

  Mr. Murdoch in muddy horse boots stepped into the ring, holding up his hand while the men cheered and whistled. The contractor let the noise continue for a few moments, then raised his hand again. The crowd fell silent.

  “Rules of engagement! A win is by knockdown! Nothing else will serve!” The contractor looked at Muck, then Fergus. “Ready, men?”

  Muck nodded. he was flushed with beer and exercise.

  Molly was looking at Fergus, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling.

  Kelly. Of course she’d wanted Kelly to help her get away. You couldn’t blame her for that.

  It cracked you to realize you weren’t the only.

  The timer’s bell sounded and Muck came out quickly, dancing.

  Feeling strange, as if he were moving in a dead world, Fergus let go of the halter. The blue started trotting around the ring, looking for a way out. Snorting with fear. The heavy mud was sucking at the horse’s feet. He kept trying to break out of the ring but the navvies kept him in, screaming at him, waving their hats, slapping at his flanks.

  Suddenly the frightened horse dashed straight for Muldoon and reared up, clawing the air with his forelegs. His right foot snagged Muck’s shoulder and knocked the ganger down. In a flurry of stomps and kicks, the blue horse trampled Muck in the mud then resumed his frantic dashing around the ring, wildeyed and fluting steam, the mud sucking at his hooves.

  The blue had already forgotten Muck, on his back, chest crushed, spouting red blood.

  The dead lie so soft. Souls yielding they hug
the ground. What is it that’s taken out of them?

  The men would need to kill the horse, he knew, in vengeance for their champion.

  Sometimes the future flies straight at you. Your brain reaches out and takes what it wants.

  The blue was dashing from one end to the other when Fergus ran out into the ring, seized the halter, and threw himself up on the horse’s back. He could feel the blue’s exhaustion as he steered him across the ring. Looking down at Muldoon’s corpse, he saw the railway spike still clenched in Muck’s left hand.

  When he leaned down for her, she hesitated only a second before grasping his arm and pulling herself up behind. Kicking and wriggling, then getting a leg over.

  With her arms around him he kicked hard and rode straight at the men at the far end of the ring. The faces fell back, yelling and cursing, and then they were through. Trotting past the bootmaker’s tent, the ruined church. He caught a whiff of iron, tangy and rough, as they crossed over the grade, the horse moving between his knees, Molly’s arms around his chest, her breathing hot on his neck.

  You felt so strong. Felt so pure.

  You carry yourself inside, don’t you? Dry, like a handful of seeds.

  You thought you’d been redeemed.

  THEY HAD the road to themselves. Through the dark villages, dogs yelped in surprise, and Molly held on with both arms across his chest as though she trusted him completely and believed he would never do her harm.

  They barely spoke. She seemed internal, untouchable, made of thoughts. The night was bitter, ice lacquering the fields, but the thrill of leaving burned like a good fire and he was never cold.

  Who wants anything but to travel at night with a girl? Night of the Opening Road. You don’t care if you are awake or sleeping, alive or dead — you just keep going.

  You tell yourself you want to protect her, but of course it is more complicated than that.

  The Road

  DAWN WAS BLURRED, smelling of old blankets and snow, when they rode across the bridge at Conwy. While he watered the horse at an iron trough she spread Muldoon’s coat on the ground and sat examining an object in her hand.

  “Look here.” She held up Muldoon’s gold watch, dangling on its chain. “It was in Muck’s pocket, of course. And here, his pay.” She showed him the handful of coins. “There’s enough for a passage. Needn’t go south, so. Straight to Liverpool and buy a passage.”

  He should feel glad but did not. The watch tied her to Muldoon.

  Molly held the instrument to her ear. “Still alive. His time she is beating. Listen.”

  She pressed it to his ear, and he heard the small, dry noise.

  “We shall let her run down, and that marks the finish of Muldoon. When she has good and stopped, I’ll wind her up again.” She fixed the watch chain around her neck. “Poor old Muck. He was good for something at last.”

  Dawn was filling in. He could see a rocky headland and the plate of sea. On the other side of the road, beyond the fields, heavy mountains caught the light.

  “In America there is woods so thick, Fergus, they call it the Nightland.”

  “Why?”

  “So heavy you can’t see light. But it’s good browse for cattle.”

  “They have their cabins there?”

  “No cabins, they all own farms.” Molly lit her pipe. “We’ll go straight for Liverpool, flog the watch. Must be careful whom we deal with, or they’ll nab us for reward. Say I stole the thing.”

  “You didn’t. You’re Muck’s wife —”

  “Railway wife don’t signify. No, have to be careful or we’ll end up on the iron gang. Convicted and sentenced for transportation. Van Dieman’s Land!”

  “I’ve friends in Liverpool.”

  “Can they help flog the watch and find a ship?”

  “Shea can. She knows sailors, I am sure.”

  “A sailor is only a navvy on the sea.”

  He used to think the navvies were powerful, but the railway was powerful, not the men.

  Could he find his way back to the Dragon? They were the only ones who could look at him now and not see a stranger.

  The city’s streets, courts, and alleys were scattered in his mind like bits of iron shot.

  Explosive Liverpool.

  “Here.” Passing him the pipe, Molly lay on her side wrapped in her cloak, facing away.

  “I’ll own cattle,” she said.

  He touched her hair. If she felt his touch, she didn’t respond. He could hear the watch beating — regular verse of the hard new world. He wanted to put their new relationship into words but didn’t know the words. Taking off his coat he lay beside her, pulling the coat over them both. Molly muttered and wriggled closer for warmth, kerning her hips into his.

  God, he was so near.

  He lay absorbing her heat, watchful and hungry, listening to her breathe.

  WHEN HE awoke, he knew right away she was gone. He stood up quickly. Frost shone on the ground. The horse gone as well. The pockets of his coat were empty; she’d taken all his pay.

  Scrambling up to stand on a flinty wall, he gazed down the road.

  It was empty. Mountains and empty sea. Hard wind, the light shifting nervously.

  He felt stunned. He didn’t want to think. Jumping down off the wall, he started along the road.

  Anger and grief live in the throat. They’re always there, always ready.

  Walk, keep walking. Crack of hobnails on stone.

  An animal is all you are. And the world’s just ground and light.

  Keep moving. Open your mouth wide, the wind screams right in.

  THE SUN warmed the road and he stopped to drink at a stream.

  He wondered if she’d watered the horse. Probably not. She’d be pushing too hard, going fast, breaking him down.

  He smelled brine. The wind was whipping the sea, flecked with whitecaps. The cold water he had drunk burned into his chest, and he felt it like a cut in his belly. He started coughing, couldn’t stop. He bent over longing to spit his life on the road while the coughs racked him. But then it passed, and he wiped his eyes and kept walking. An hour later he came to a long, sheltered stretch where the road turned away from the sea and cut through a soft green valley with meadow on each side, dotted with sheep. He saw the blue up ahead, eating grass under a hedge.

  The horse was lame, hobbling.

  No sign of her.

  The horse wanted to shy away, but he managed to catch hold of the bridle. Raising the blue’s right leg he saw that the lameness was only a shoe knocked loose by the hard surface of the road. All the nails but one were still in place. Using a stone for a hammer, he drove them in tight. It wasn’t perfect but would hold a few more miles. He threw himself aboard and started down the road. The horse was tired, needing rest, water, and feed.

  After a couple of miles he caught sight of her up ahead, a lone figure walking the road. He kicked his heels until the blue horse broke into a tired canter.

  She heard them coming and turned around, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  He halted when there was still a distance between them.

  “You’re angry, I suppose,” she said.

  “Why’d you do it, Molly?”

  “Thought he was gone lame.”

  “Why’d you run away?”

  “I don’t know.” She was still shielding her eyes. “Your horse woke me. Stood over me, he did, but quiet and easy. Before I knew it I was up on his back. Then I was looking at you, thinking sure you’d open your eyes — only you didn’t.”

  “You stole my pay.”

  “It all just happened, Fergus, I swear. It never was a plan.” She held out the coins, wrapped in a handkerchief. “Here’s our stake. Nothing I’ve spent. Only a shilling for some eggs. And tea. And jam.”

  “Give me my money.” That she could have left so easily, so lightly, shocked him.

  Approaching the horse, she held up the bundle of coins.

  “Mine — I want only what’s mine,” he said coldly. �
�You may keep Muck’s — you go hang with Muck’s. Give me what’s mine. Count it out and give it over.”

  “Man —”

  “I don’t wish to hear your rattle.”

  “It was only to be alone awhile —”

  “Count me what’s mine!” Even in the seethe of anger he understood why she had fled. It stung him but why wouldn’t she? She’d been banged about by hard men, and hard she was.

  Molly stroked the horse’s neck. “I had my thoughts to order — you know how it is. But I was thinking on you while I were walking, Fergus — thinking on you quite sore.”

  “Count me out mine, and clear away.”

  “Don’t get all harsh, man. You’d only hurt yourself as well as me.” She touched his leg with her knuckle

  “Get out of the road!” He began to cry.

  “You’re such a boy now,” she said softly.

  “Clear away!”

  “We’re strong together, man, you know we are. And I was going to stop and wait for you. I would have, sure.” She tugged his trouser leg. “Come, Fergus, give me a lift. We’re stone partners. You know it.”

  A flock of guillemots were circling and howling over the shore.

  He did know it. They were stone partners. Each had tasted the world and tried to spit out the taste and couldn’t.

  “I was going to sit down and wait for you, man, soon as it got a little warmer. I knew you’d be along.” She touched his leg again. “Come, Fergus, give me a lift. We need each other.”

  Leaning over, he held out his arm. She seized it to drag herself aboard, kicking and struggling to get a leg over.

  She was dark as him, she was rough, they knew the same hard things.

  Astride, laughing, she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Oh, man, I like it up here!”

  Gently he kicked, and the weary horse resumed walking.

  AT ABERGELY they paid a couple of shillings for beer, cheese, wheat rolls, and feed for the horse. They sat with tramps on benches outside the beer shop, eating and drinking in the sunshine. The men peppered them with questions, wanting news of the line. Was there fever in the camps farther west? Would the work at Mr. Murdoch’s last until summer?