“What I’d like to see,” his father says now, “is you putting that skill to use as an engineer or an architect for the company. Think of the things you could create! I saw the way you looked at the locomotive.”
Will nods. “It’s very impressive. . . .”
“The CPR will need men to design new fleets of ocean liners and bridges to take our tracks all the way across the world. There’s even talk of spanning the Bering Strait so we can pass from Asia without need of ships.”
Will adjusts his cutlery. “I’m not sure it’s what I’m meant to do.”
“Meant to do? That’s nonsense. A man does what he needs to do, to make his way in the world, to support a family.”
The lamb is placed before Will. It is one of his favorite dishes, but he suddenly has no appetite.
“There’s no living to be made as an artist, William,” his father says. “Your mother and I have been happy to let you draw and paint—as a hobby. But these artist fellows, they live very wretched lives.”
“I don’t mind being poor,” Will replies, and then adds, “We were poor once.”
“And there’s no shame in being poor,” James Everett replies, though Will notices that he glances about the dining car. “But it’s foolish to seek it out when there are better opportunities.”
“There’s nothing I want to do more,” says Will simply.
His father looks at him closely, and for a moment Will thinks he sees sympathy in his father’s eyes. But then James Everett sniffs.
“William, my boy, I see it as a fruitless course.”
Will forces himself to take a mouthful of his meal; the meat is heavy and tastes of blood. He washes it down with water.
“I’ve done the things you thought best,” he says. “I studied hard—”
“And why wouldn’t you?” his father counters in exasperation. “You had an opportunity, a rare opportunity, to get a superior education. Studying hard was the least you could do.”
“Yes, I know,” Will says, tracing the small pattern on the tablecloth to focus his thoughts, “and I’m grateful. And I did work hard. I even played piano for a year because mother wanted me to, even though I hated it!”
“You made a terrible sound with that instrument.”
“I did it on purpose. Drawing is what I love most.”
His father shrugs. “And you draw every day. So keep drawing. But after your proper work is done.”
“It’s not enough. I need training, that’s what Mr. Grenfell said. I’m good at copying things. But I’m a terrible painter still. And when I do people, they’re not right. They’re all missing . . . something.”
“And you think this fancy school in San Francisco will fix that.”
“I won’t know unless I try.”
“Ah. And you expect me to pay for this foolhardy experiment?”
“I’ll pay my own way!”
“Will you?”
Will feels his cheeks redden. “Why not? You worked when you were my age.”
“I never would have done the things I did if I’d had your opportunities.”
“What about building the railway? You said it was a grand adventure.” He takes a breath. “I want my own adventure.”
His father’s eyes look past him for a moment. “You saw what it was like in the mountains, William. Rough men doing backbreaking work. Frostbite in the winter, and a plague of mosquitoes in the summer. Bad food. Late pay. Every day a fair chance we’d get torn apart by a sasquatch or blasted to bits.” More gently he says, “You could’ve died up there that day. Your mother was furious with me. She and I, we don’t want a hard life for you. You’re not suited to it.”
Will feels another sharp sting of humiliation—though this isn’t the first time his father has said such things. His father thinks he’s too shy, too sensitive. Too soft.
“I don’t know what I’m suited for,” Will says quietly. “But I mean to find out.”
* * *
After dinner Will and his father make their way to the Lionsgate parlor car, which has been transformed into a theater while they dined. Rows of velvet chairs face a small raised platform with Japanese folding screens on either side.
Will sits down beside his father. The rest of their dinner was quiet and tense. Nothing was decided.
More men saunter in with their cigars and glasses of port and brandy, their ladies on their arms, and take their seats. Will spots a Mountie in a scarlet uniform.
“Is that Sam Steele?” he asks his father.
“He helped keep law and order in the mountain work camps, so we invited him to be on the maiden voyage.”
To Will it’s like seeing a picture torn from a book. Steele really is as mountainous and powerful as the stories said.
“We’ll have at least one Mountie on every voyage,” his father says. “To do the rounds of the cars.”
When everyone’s finally seated, a short, finely attired gentleman steps onto the platform, and the audience grows quiet.
“Welcome aboard the Boundless, Ladies and Gentlemen, the world’s largest and most glorious train.”
There is a polite splattering of applause and a few gruff “Hear, hear”s from the audience.
“My name is Mr. Beecham, the conductor. I am delighted to have such a fine group of people aboard for our maiden journey. In this room is an unparalleled collection of our nation’s best and brightest. I salute you ladies and gentlemen, nation builders all! And in honor of your first night aboard, we have a program to entertain, delight, and even thrill you. First some recitations from our poet laureate, Sir Allen Nunn.”
When the famous writer stands and begins to proclaim, Will’s attention wanders. The poet seems to be talking about pulling weeds from a garden, but Will isn’t sure. The man’s voice drones on, rising and falling with the monotony of an ocean swell.
From somewhere comes the unnaturally loud sound of a flushing toilet. It flushes for a very long time, water gurgling and sucking through the walls in an invisible tangle of pipes. Everyone in the room is trying to ignore the noise, and Will bites his lips together. But he can’t stop a muffled explosion of laughter inside his mouth.
The historian who follows the poet is more interesting, talking about the building of the railway. Will has heard most of the stories already, but at least they’re good ones.
“Some of you may have noticed that our train is a large one,” Mr. Beecham says when he resumes the stage. “Our rolling city comprises first class, second class, third class, colonist class, and behind these, several miles of freight cars. But amongst these freight cars is a little town, a string of eighty carriages belonging to the world-renowned Zirkus Dante. The Boundless is conveying the circus to Lionsgate City, where it will begin its tour of the continent. And kindly joining us tonight is the ringmaster himself, here to inspire and confound us with his wizardry. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Mr. Dorian!”
Will sits up straighter. From behind one of the screens steps the circus man that Will first met three years ago. Dignified, he walks to the center of the platform, hands clasped behind his back.
The gaslights in the car are dimmed by attendants, leaving only Mr. Dorian brightly illuminated.
“I do not believe in magic, Ladies and Gentlemen. There is no such thing. What people call magic is just the unexplained mystery of our world. And there is no end of wonders along this road we’re on. Cut from the wilderness, these tracks take us from sea to sea, through landscapes scarcely seen by civilized man. And so this steel road has revealed things to us that we might have assumed were the stuff of legends. Muskeg that devours trains, the man-eating Wendigo of the northern forest. Perhaps a lake leviathan or the mighty sasquatch.”
A hush has fallen over the parlor car, so Will can feel the thumpety-clack of the track like a startled heartbeat in his chest. He knows firsthand how real the sasquatch is,
and some of his father’s letters mentioned these other mysterious things—stories told from other people’s stories. He never knew how much to believe.
“Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mr. Dorian continues, “the wonders of our world are many, and I have seen things that would startle and terrify you. But let me share with you now a marvel of a different sort.”
After pausing dramatically, he walks closer to the audience.
“Mesmerism, the art of hypnosis, is one of the world’s most powerful forces. Monsters and armies mean nothing compared to the power of one man’s eyes, and the power of one man’s voice, and the power he can muster when people listen to him of their own free will—listen to his voice, and look at his eyes, and let themselves accept an invitation to listen and then to listen once more. . . .”
Will wonders if the light in the car has dimmed further, for it’s as if Mr. Dorian’s face has grown brighter. And Will is aware of the man’s fathomless black eyes, and his mouth, inviting him to do something, he doesn’t know what because he can no longer hear what is being said, until—
He looks around the car, which seems brighter suddenly, to find himself standing along with everyone else in the theater. He has absolutely no memory of moving at all, and everyone else seems just as startled as he is. Nervous tittering and a few gasps erupt.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, forgive me,” says Mr. Dorian with a smile. “Most rude of me, but I merely suggested that you all stand up, and you did so most willingly. Please sit down, sit down. . . . You’ve been most kind.”
Everyone sits, grinning foolishly.
“It’s a trick,” grumbles a stolid man through his whiskers.
“Not at all, sir,” says Mr. Dorian. “It is the power of mesmerism. Would you care to help me demonstrate?”
The whiskery fellow waves his hand grumpily, but others are eager to volunteer. Will watches, amazed, as one after another, people go to the front and Mr. Dorian puts them into a kind of trance. One woman chirps like a canary, another sings a lullaby from his childhood, a third fellow thinks he’s climbing a ladder, huffing and puffing with every imaginary step.
Whenever Mr. Dorian asks for another volunteer, Will wishes he were not so shy. He likes the idea of being hypnotized—what would it feel like to not be himself?—but can’t imagine being watched by so many people.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” says Mr. Dorian, “as I said, I do not believe in magic but only the power of the mind. And we have, I believe, in our audience a very great mind indeed. Mr. Sandford Fleming, am I correct?”
“You are,” says a gentleman.
Will cranes his neck and recognizes the “excessively bearded man” Mr. Van Horne introduced him to on the company train. If anything, Mr. Fleming’s beard is even more massive, fanning out sharply over his collar so he seems to have no neck at all. Will notices that the man’s wife sits a good distance from him.
“Sir, I applaud you,” says Mr. Dorian. “If you did not know, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the genius who invented the notion of standard time and time zones. In this age of lightning and steam, we move at such great speeds that it’s necessary for us to adjust the time, hour by hour, as we hurtle across the continent. It’s remarkable, isn’t it, that within the space of a single second, it can be ten o’clock, and then the next second, nine o’clock! And if I’m not mistaken, we are about to pass through one such time zone, are we not, Mr. Fleming?”
“We are indeed,” he concurs.
“Have you ever wondered, Ladies and Gentlemen, what happens when we pass through a time zone? Do we truly lose or gain an hour? Does it appear or disappear? How can time be altered? Surely time does not really change. And I believe, Mr. Fleming, you’ve also invented the term ‘cosmic time,’ which is the same all over the world.”
“True again,” says the gentleman.
“So we have standard time, constantly changing as we move, and cosmic time, which remains steady. Now, here is a curious thing. It seems that when we move with speed through time zones, there is a moment when reality catches up with cosmic time. I invite you all now to look at your timepieces.”
Will, along with all the men in the room, dutifully takes out his pocket watch.
“Now observe the second hand as it makes its way around the clock. And remember that we’re about to gain another hour! You will travel back in time an entire hour. Is it true? Of course not, and yet . . . behold.”
Will stares at his watch face. The second hand moves smoothly.
Tick . . . tick . . .
“Watch carefully now,” comes Mr. Dorian’s deep voice. “Making its steady way. Watch now . . .”
Tick . . . tick . . .
“It moves and it moves; it knows its path,” Dorian’s voice says, as if from a great distance. “Keep your eyes on it, Ladies and Gentlemen.”
And then Will’s eyes widen as the second hand leans forward but doesn’t move, only stutters in place—for how long, he doesn’t know, for he can’t take his eyes away. Will is dimly aware of gasps around the room, and a few people muttering, “Impossible!”
And then the second hand begins to move again, and Will blinks and looks back at Mr. Dorian.
“What happened, Ladies and Gentlemen? I shall tell you. Your bodies, all the matter in this room, were simply readjusting to the new reality, the new time. But what if I were to tell you that in this small stutter of time, I slipped from the front of the room and walked amongst you, and took some things, without your even knowing?”
“Outrageous!” calls someone.
“Is it?” he says. And he pulls from his pocket a wallet. “Sir, I believe this is yours, is it not, with the monogrammed initials HD?”
“How in the devil . . .”
“And a pair of jade cuff links from you, sir, there!”
“Incredible!” says the man, looking at his loose shirt cuffs.
Will laughs with his father, until Mr. Dorian points at them.
“And from the gentleman over there . . . an important-looking key on a chain.”
Will’s smile fades when he sees the concern on his father’s face.
“Now, if I can ask you all to come and collect your things, please,” says Mr. Dorian. “Oh, and please do remember to set your timepieces back an hour!”
“Go on,” his father says quietly. “Take it back.”
Will’s heart thumps.
Impatiently his father says, “Now, Will.”
Will stands, and as he walks toward the front, he feels his heart give a few panicked thumps. It doesn’t help that Mr. Dorian seems even taller as he draws closer to the platform. The ringmaster smiles as he hands Will the key, and he shakes Will’s hand but doesn’t release his grip. Is there a hint of recognition in his eyes?
“And since you’re already here, young sir, perhaps I might prevail upon you to assist me in the final act.”
Will finds he cannot speak.
“Excellent,” says Mr. Dorian. “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Zirkus Dante’s unparalleled escape artist, the Miraculous Maren!”
A girl emerges from behind the screen like an exotic bird, her clothes bright and extravagant. Will has never seen anyone so vividly made up, her lips rouged, eyebrows lined with charcoal. Her legs and arms are bare. Will feels the heat in his cheeks.
“No lock can hold her! No chains can bind her!” proclaims Mr. Dorian.
She carries with her a length of rope and several heavy chains.
“Now, I know you think there will be some trick to this, my friends. Which is why I’ve asked this young gentleman from the audience to fasten these chains and this rope in any way he sees fit.”
The girl holds out the rope and chains for Will.
“Examine them first,” Mr. Dorian instructs. “Make sure they are strong.”
Will tests them, but he’s distracted
by the girl, who smiles at him. There is a narrow gap between her teeth. Her eyes have a lively angle and a light that doesn’t seem to be a mere reflection from the gas lamps.
“What shall I do now?” he asks.
“Tie me up,” she replies.
Nervously he starts winding the rope around her body.
“Tighter, young sir, tighter!” cries Mr. Dorian.
“I don’t want to hurt her,” Will says.
Laughter rises from the audience.
“You won’t hurt me,” she says, just to him. “Go ahead.”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he whispers.
She gives a quick, almost imperceptible nod.
He knots the rope many times. “You have my sasquatch tooth,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
Will winds the chains around her and fastens them with heavy padlocks, then tests the locks to make sure they are secure.
“Thank you, young sir. Now if you will step to one side . . .”
Her eyes meet his once more before she turns her attention to the front.
With a flourish Mr. Dorian throws an enormous silk scarf over her, and she’s transformed into a giant cocoon, wriggling about to the sound of clanking chains as she tries to free herself. Will can hear the steady sound of her breathing.
“Surely that’s long enough!” exclaims Mr. Dorian after only fifteen seconds, and he impatiently grabs hold of the silk scarf and yanks it off.
The audience gasps, for the girl is no longer there. All that’s left is the rope and chains in a pile on the floor.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” cries Mr. Dorian with a tip of his hat. “The disappearing act!”
* * *
The applause is still going strong when Mr. Beecham, the conductor, takes Will’s arm and says, “You can go back to your seat now, lad.” Will watches as Mr. Dorian strides behind the screen and is gone.
“I want to talk to them.”
“William!” his father calls. He turns to see his father looking at him expectantly.
“Where are they staying?” Will asks Mr. Beecham. In his haste he’s forgotten to be nervous.
“They have rooms in second class for the night. Tomorrow they’ll return to their own cars during our stop.”
The Boundless Page 5
