The Boundless

by Kenneth Oppel

  “And that’s hotheaded Brian Mackie,” says Sticks, “my brakeman.”

  “Thank you for not throwing me off the train,” Will says.

  Mackie makes a noncommittal grunt.

  For the first time Will takes in his surroundings properly. Beside the stove is a wooden table. A shelf underneath contains pots and pans, and paper sacks of rice and onions and potatoes. Above the small sink and water pump are two shelves with some cutlery and knives and tinned goods.

  Farther forward against either side of the caboose is a small bed. Shirts and coats and trousers hang from pegs high up on the walls. In a far corner is a tidy desk, and above are a clock, a small mirror, and a bulletin board pinned with schedules and lists. At the very front of the car is a narrow door, which Will guesses must lead to the toilet—for he realizes these guards stay here for the duration of the trip. This is their home. Oil lanterns give the place a welcoming glow. There is a small square window on either side of the car, and even a couple of pictures pinned to the walls.

  Most intriguing is what’s right above him. When he looks straight up, he can see a little observation room with windows on all sides, and two swivel chairs on platforms reachable by ladders.

  “That’s the cupola,” Sticks says, noting his gaze. “Where we sit when the train’s entering and leaving station, or being shunted, so we can make sure the tracks are clear of obstruction.”

  Will thinks that if circumstances were different, he might ask to climb up and sit in one of those chairs.

  “We were just settling down to our dinner,” says Sticks. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not what you’re used to in first class,” says Mackie sourly.

  Sticks takes some bowls from the shelf. He lifts the lid of the largest pot and ladles out a stew thick with carrots and potatoes and onions and peas and parsnips and cubes of beef. He passes a bowl to Will with a spoon. Will holds it in his lap, just staring at it. Last night he ate lamb in first class, but right now he’s not sure he’s ever smelled anything this good. Greedily he begins to eat.

  “Guess they’re not feeding them too well up front,” says Mackie.

  “Quiet, Mackie,” Sticks tells him with calm authority. He tears a big hunk of bread from a dark loaf and passes it to Will. “Mop up with this.”

  Will wipes the bread around and around the bowl and devours it all. He appreciates it with an intensity he didn’t feel in the first-class dining car. He notices everything: the grainy texture, the yeasty flavor.

  “Thank you,” he says gratefully.

  A few melodious notes float through the air, and Will looks up inquisitively.

  “My wind chimes,” explains Sticks. “Hanging out back. Now, William Everett, suppose you tell us why you’re on my caboose.”

  With food in his stomach, Will feels restored. He begins to tell his story. He avoids Mackie’s hostile eyes and looks at Sticks instead, who regards him patiently and nods every now and then—and even chuckles quietly when he hears about how he bought the sasquatch urine.

  When Will comes to the part about seeing the drunken funeral car guard in the woods, he hesitates—and doesn’t mention the dropped key. He knows what that key does, and he trusts Sticks, but not Mackie. He can feel the key, still in his pocket. Then he tells Sticks about the guard being stabbed. Will notices that Mackie is leaning forward slightly in his chair.

  “This fellow with the knife,” says Sticks softly, “did you get a good look at him?”

  Will sees the knife in Brogan’s clenched fist pulling back, wet, and he feels a queasy swell in his stomach.

  “He was in brakeman’s clothes. His name’s Brogan.”

  “There ain’t no Brogan on this train,” Mackie says to Sticks.

  “Are you sure he was in brakeman’s clothes?” Sticks asks Will.

  Will is less sure now. “Well, they were overalls.”

  “Anyone can wear those,” says Mackie.

  “Describe him,” Sticks says.

  “Big but not too tall, fair hair, and his nose had a kink in it, like a break that hadn’t healed proper.”

  He knows he should have said “properly” but thought it might sound prissy alongside all the blunt talk of the caboose men. He likes that talk, the sound and shape of it.

  He adds, “Blue eyes.”

  “You noticed the color of his eyes?” Mackie asks.

  “I’ve seen him before.”

  Sticks’s eyes widen. “When?”

  “In the mountains. He tried to steal the last spike.”

  Mackie gives a caw of laughter. “And I suppose you drove the last spike too!”

  “I did,” said Will, tired of Mackie’s sneering.

  “Crazy and a liar,” Mackie scoffs. “I seen that photo of the last spike, and you are not holding the hammer.”

  “I wasn’t in the photo,” Will says, “’cause—”

  “Because Donald Smith bent the spike,” Sticks says, nodding. “I’ve heard this story. They said a boy drove it in. So.” He looks at Will. “That was you.”

  Will nods.

  “And this Brogan,” Sticks says, “what happened to him up there?”

  “He got attacked by a sasquatch. Thrown over the cliff. Everybody thought he was dead.”

  “You believe all this, then?” Mackie asks Sticks.

  “I do. I’ve been around people long enough to know a liar. This boy is not lying.”

  “We’ll find out, I suppose,” says Mackie.

  “I doubt this Brogan fellow works on the train, though,” says Sticks. “There’s all kinds of rough sorts hanging about the Junction.”

  Will looks at the clock. “How will I get back?”

  “Well,” says Sticks, “the Boundless is more than nine hundred cars long, and it’s a good five miles before you even get to colonist class. It’s no easy stroll over the top of freight cars, unless you’re partial to jumping in the dark.”

  Will knows the Boundless isn’t scheduled to stop until tomorrow afternoon.

  “If your father’s the general manager,” Mackie says, “why don’t he just stop the train for you?”

  “He won’t even know I’m gone,” Will says, realizing. “He’s driving the Boundless.”

  “Then he’ll know there’s a freight close behind us, and the Intercolonial not far after,” Sticks says. “Stopping’s out of the question. We can’t be blocking the whole track. And there’s no siding long enough to hold us. Most likely you’re stuck with us until tomorrow.”

  “Well, ain’t that a joy,” Mackie mutters.

  “Mackie,” says Sticks, “another unkind word from you, and you can sleep on the roof tonight.”

  “Might prefer it, the stink coming off that boy.”

  “Wash the dishes. After that I want you to take a note up and tell the fellows to pass it forward.” To Will he says, “We can work a message to the front to the conductor. There’s a brakeman every twenty cars.”

  “The fellas won’t like it,” says Mackie. “Not in the dark.”

  “We’ve got a straight stretch for a good while,” Sticks says.

  “Easy for you. You won’t be the one up top. And it looks like there might be rain.”

  “Right now there’s a full moon. Plenty of light. Anyway, this is important. If a guard’s been murdered, they need to know about it. Especially if the killer’s on board.”

  Will’s insides clench. “You think he might be?”

  “Could be. But there’s a Mountie aboard who’ll sort things out.”

  “It’s Sam Steele,” Will says, trying to make himself feel better.

  “There you go. No one finer than Samuel Steele.”

  Sticks walks over to his desk, picks up a pen, and starts writing a note.

  Reluctantly Mackie gets up and pumps some water into the sink, sluici
ng the dirty bowls and cutlery. Will remembers a sink like that in his old apartment, before they were rich. He sees a dish towel and steps forward to help.

  “My father used to be a brakeman,” he says to Mackie.

  Mackie grunts. “Then you know it’s pretty much the most dangerous job in the world, ’specially in bad weather. Them running boards get all slick. Rain drives into your face. You get a sudden rumble or curve in the track, you slip and get thrown.”

  Before he can stop himself, Will glances at the peg jutting from Mr. Chan’s floppy pant leg. Then he looks away, but not before Mackie has caught him out.

  “Nah, he didn’t fall off,” says Mackie. “He was blasting in the mountains with the nitro. Got his leg blown clean off. Least he survived. Gets to work inside now. Not like us. You know there’s five brakemen killed every day cross this continent?”

  “The boy doesn’t need your sob stories,” Sticks says sharply. “And neither do I. For every mile of track we laid through the mountains, four of my countrymen died.”

  Sticks hands a sullen Mackie an envelope marked with the Boundless insignia. “Get going and take that forward.”

  “I’ll see if anyone’s heard about this funeral guard,” says Mackie. He pulls his jacket and cap from the pegs, takes a lantern, and leaves through the forward door.

  “Don’t mind him,” Sticks tells Will. “He has indigestion of the soul. If he were my son, I’d have let wolves raise him.”

  Will smiles. He feels a lot better knowing his father will be getting a note about him, and the guard—and that Sam Steele will know too. He looks around the caboose, and up through the cupola windows, where he can see the full moon. The idea of spending a day in a caboose doesn’t seem so terrible—in fact, he likes it. He could do without Mackie. But how many people get to cross the country in a caboose? It’s almost as good as riding in the locomotive.

  He isn’t even aware that his eyes keep closing, until he hears Sticks say, “Why don’t you get some rest?”

  Will nods. He feels unaccountably heavy.

  “You can have my cot,” says Sticks. “But if you don’t mind, have a wash first. That sasquatch urine is potent.”

  “Sorry,” says Will, walking unsteadily toward the front of the car. Behind a small door he finds a tiny washbasin and a hard bar of soap. He scrubs at his face, especially behind his ears, until his skin is chafed.

  “There you go,” says Sticks, nodding at the cot. Will is touched that he’s folded down the sheets for him.

  Will takes off his shredded jacket and vest, then sits down and removes his only shoe. It feels strange settling into someone else’s bed. His head sinks into the pillow; he pulls the blanket around his neck. Against his face gentle heat pulses from the stove. The sound of wind chimes wafts in from outside. The mattress is a bit saggy—nothing like the firm comfort of his bed in first class. But then the motion of the train, like some rough lullaby, works on him, and in moments he is asleep.

  AN UNSCHEDULED STOP

  * * *

  When Will opens his eyes, it takes him a moment to understand where he is. He hears the musical trill of wind chimes. Beyond the caboose windows it’s still dark. He sees Mackie in his cap and jacket, lantern in hand, talking quietly with Sticks at the desk.

  “Why’ve we stopped?” Will asks, sitting up.

  Sticks and Mackie both turn.

  “There’s a slow freight ahead of us,” Sticks says. “We’re waiting for it to be shunted so we can pass.”

  “Did my father get the message?”

  “It’ll be working its way up,” Mackie says.

  Hopeful, Will asks, “Is there enough time for me to make it up front?”

  “Could be. We were just going to wake you,” Sticks says. “Mackie’s going to walk you up to the next guard, and they’ll take you from there. You might make it all the way; worst case, you bunk in a guard cabin. I’d take you myself ”—he taps his wooden peg—“but I’m a bit slow.”

  “Get your shoe on,” Mackie says to Will. “Be quick about it.”

  Hurriedly Will ties the laces of his single shoe. Without the blankets he feels the cold again and shivers as he pulls on his vest and jacket. He’s vaguely disappointed to be leaving the caboose. It’s cozy, and he likes Sticks. He was looking forward to the stories the old guard might tell. He tries to brush off the dried mud his trousers have left on the bedsheets.

  “Never mind that, lad,” Sticks tells him.

  “Thank you very much for your kindness,” Will says.

  The caboose guard claps him on the shoulder. “You’re quite welcome, lad. Quick now, and with a bit of luck you’ll finish off the night in your own bed.”

  Mackie is already leaving by the forward door, and Will hurries after him, out onto the platform and down the steps to the gravel.

  Despite the moon and stars, the night is startlingly dark. It takes him some minutes for his eyes to grow accustomed. His feet crunch in the gravel as he walks past one dark boxcar after another. Far in the distance he thinks he hears an impatient hiss of steam from the Boundless’s engine—or it might just be the sound of the wind in the trees. He has no idea where they’ve stopped, or even what time it is; he forgot to check the clock before he left. He hurries to keep up with the sullen Mackie.

  From the glowering wall of forest beside him emanates an oppressive silence, broken occasionally by a fierce scuffle of leaves. He thinks he catches the flash of eyes low to the ground. Mackie seems not at all concerned, and just keeps walking.

  “Do you think there’s bears in the woods?”

  “Worse, probably.” Mackie doesn’t even glance at him. “Saw a Wendigo around here once.”

  Will’s skin crawls. “Really?”

  “Luckily, we was moving at the time. Threw itself at a cattle car. Nearly ripped the door right off.”

  Will walks faster. The train stretches ahead in a long, slow curve. At regular intervals red lanterns hang from its side. Will remembers from his father that the brakemen hang red lanterns when the train’s been ordered to stop, to send a signal all the way down the cars. When the train gets under way again, the lantern lights are green.

  After a few more minutes Will sees a bright white light up ahead. This one swings.

  “There he is,” says Mackie. “He’ll take you on.”

  Will can’t say he’s disappointed exactly, but he feels a bit apprehensive about meeting a string of strangers in the darkness. The two of them pass a few more freight cars. Will can see the other brakeman’s tall silhouette.

  Will still isn’t used to his lopsided one-shoed gait, and when he stumbles on the rail ties, Mackie takes his arm to steady him.

  “This the young gent?” says the other brakeman, walking to meet them.

  “The very one,” Mackie replies.

  In a sudden splash of lantern light, Will catches sight of a shadowed face with a nose that looks like it’s been broken one too many times.

  Will’s throat clenches. “But—” He looks at Mackie in terror. He backs up, ready to run, but Mackie’s grip tightens on his arm. “That’s him!” Will cries.

  Swiftly Brogan strides toward him. Something clenched in his hand flashes darkly. Will tries to wrench his arm free. Why won’t Mackie let him go? And then some desperate instinct springs inside him, and he throws his full weight against Mackie. The brakeman staggers, nearly dragging Will down with him, but Will twists free. Half-blind, he runs back toward the rear of the train. He has no breath to shout for help. Brogan’s boots crunch in the gravel behind him.

  With his one shoe Will is clumsy, and he can barely see his feet.

  “Key’s all I want!” gasps Brogan. “Gimme that key, boy, I let you live!”

  Will knows he’s lying. He casts a wild look at the woods, five yards to his left, and doubts he’ll make it in time before Brogan catches h
im. On his other side the train is an unbroken wall but for the gap beneath cars. The quick puffs of Brogan’s breath are getting louder.

  Will gives himself no more time to think, just throws himself under the train. The steel rails punch the breath from his belly as he lands atop them. Head against the gravel, he scrabbles furiously, the smell of creosote sharp in his nostrils. He’s halfway through when a hand seizes his ankle and drags him back. He digs his fingers into the gravel, then grabs the rail and holds tight, kicking. His second shoe flies off, and he hears a curse as his foot connects with Brogan’s face. Twisting, he kicks out again.

  But Brogan grips his ankle and hauls him backward. Will plunges a hand into his jacket pocket and grabs the vial of sasquatch urine. With his thumb he forces out the cork. Half the contents slop onto his hand as Brogan gives another violent jerk, but Will splashes the rest of the liquid into Brogan’s eyes. The brakeman curses and lets go to swipe at his face. Obscenities fly from his mouth. Will is free and hauling himself out onto the other side of the train.

  He figures he has only a matter of seconds before Brogan comes after him or Mackie vaults over the couplings between cars. But for these few seconds Will knows he can’t be seen.

  He sucks in a breath, and in his stockinged feet runs full tilt away from the tracks. He hurtles through the wild grass and scrub and is among the trees. He crouches low.

  Peeking out from behind a trunk, he sees a misty beam of lantern light stab the darkness. The beam sweeps up along the train, then down, and then Will hears a muffled curse. A second lantern joins the first. Mackie and Brogan murmur together.

  Mackie, the scoundrel, knew all along! He and Brogan are in this together. And Sticks? How could he not have heard of Brogan? Unless Brogan changed his name. . . . Will holds his breath, praying they won’t come looking. Mackie runs toward the back of the train, Brogan forward, both jabbing their lights like spears between and underneath cars, searching for him.

  As swiftly as he dares, Will pads through the undergrowth, in the direction of the faraway locomotive, letting Brogan stay well ahead of him. Will wants to keep moving. Who knows how long the Boundless will stay here? If he can make it as far as the passenger cars, he can dash on board. Once he’s among other people, he’ll be safe.