The Boundless

by Kenneth Oppel

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” Her voice takes on the tone of a circus spieler. “This here is the hand of none other than Attila the Hun. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen! Preserved in a glacier in the mountains of China! Possessed eternally with the spirit of the savage warlord! Beware! Never turn your back, for he’ll tighten his fingers around your neck!”

  The hand leaps out of sight.

  “Oh no. Can you see it?” Maren asks.

  Will drops to the floor with her, but the hand has journeyed off underneath dusty crates.

  “Lord knows where it’ll end up now,” she says. “Never mind. We’ll get it later.”

  There’s a thud on the roof. Will looks up in alarm, following the footsteps from one end of the car to the other. After a moment another person tramps overhead.

  “Brogan,” Maren says.

  “There’s lots of them,” Will says as yet more runners traverse the cars. He knows his disguise isn’t finished. The black hair won’t fool anyone.

  “It’s all right. They’ll never find us in here,” says Maren. “This way.”

  She hurries toward a tall mannequin dressed like a boxer. His arms are cocked, his fists raised protectively before his face. His jaw juts aggressively, eyes squinted.

  Maren lifts his shirt and turns a crank in his breastbone.

  “What does he do?” Will asks.

  “What do you think?”

  On the boxer’s heavy metal base is written: BEAT OUR BOXER AND WIN A DOLLAR!

  From within the boxer’s chest comes the faintest ticking—which is quickly blotted out by more heavy footsteps on the roof.

  Maren turns down the wick of the hanging lamp and leads Will toward the tangle of life-size marionettes. They settle down amongst them, weaving their arms and legs around the wires, draping bits of fabric and shredded packing paper over themselves.

  There’s a squeak of a turning knob, and in the doorway stand the silhouettes of two men.

  “Get some light in here!” one of them barks.

  Will watches as a man wades across the cluttered car and raises the nearest blind. In the pale light Will recognizes the short, wiry brakeman with pouchy eyes. And now the second man is unmistakable: Brogan. Will’s pulse jerks like a restless train.

  Together the two brakemen slowly make their way down the center aisle. Clenched in Brogan’s fist is a knife.

  The Dying Zuoave gives an agonized gasp.

  “What the hell’s that?” the pouchy-eyed man hisses.

  “A blinkin’ toy,” Brogan says, flipping back the sheet with his knifepoint.

  “This place has a bad feel to it,” says Chisholm. “My ma says circus folk traffic with the devil.”

  “Quiet down.”

  “You ever think the kid just fell off the train?” Chisholm says.

  “We need that key.”

  “Didn’t that guard say there was another one?”

  “There is,” Brogan says, “but it might be trickier to get. Anyway, we need the boy quiet.”

  Will feels faint. In a few moments the two brakemen will come abreast of him and Maren. He makes sure his limbs are loose and his head lolling forward.

  “You figure this is real, this mermaid?” Chisholm asks.

  “Dunno.”

  “Wouldn’t mind meeting a real mermaid. Not this old rotted one.”

  From some corner of the carriage comes a scuttling sound.

  “Hear that?” Brogan says.

  Will does: the erratic gallop of five brawny barbarian fingers, then silence.

  “A mouse probably,” says Chisholm.

  “Too loud,” says Brogan. “Go have a look.”

  Reluctantly Chisholm slouches off, muttering, “Some kind of freak of nature, like the rest of the folk here. Two-headed rat or something . . .”

  Brogan stops before the marionettes. With his knife he pokes distastefully at the closest ones. Will tries not to blink. He doesn’t even breathe. His eyes start to water. Why won’t Brogan move along?

  “I can’t find nothing,” says Chisholm, returning. “Look at this fella here.”

  He leans toward the boxer to read the instructions, then stands with a chuckle. He throws a punch at the boxer’s head, and the automaton’s left hand instantly rises to block it.

  “Feck it!” says Chisholm, jerking back with surprise. “That gave me gooseflesh.”

  “Don’t bother with it,” Brogan says impatiently.

  But Chisholm is clearly entranced by the boxer. He raises both fists, facing off. He throws a right hook and is blocked, and follows up with a jab with his left. The boxer lowers his glove to deflect the blow.

  “How’s he do that?” Chisholm mutters.

  “It’s just a machine,” says Brogan.

  “One hell of a smart machine.”

  Will wishes they’d just move along.

  Chisholm punches faster and harder, and Will can hear him puffing and grunting as the automaton effortlessly blocks him.

  Then, from the corner of his eye, Will sees Attila the Hun’s hand crouching in the shadow of a crate right near him. There is something expectant in the flex of its fingers. It steps closer.

  Chisholm backs up, taking a breather.

  In horror Will watches as the hand scuttles closer still to him.

  “Hear that?” Brogan says. “That same rustling sound.” He steps toward the marionettes.

  The hand touches Will’s shoe tentatively, tapping with its fingertips. Will forces himself to look away. He doesn’t want to encourage it. He swallows when he feels a weight on his shoe and knows the hand has climbed on.

  “Somewhere around here,” Brogan’s saying, not five feet from Will.

  Will stays very still. The hand moves up to his ankle, and its fingers tighten in a grip so painful, he starts to sweat.

  “It’s a hand,” says Brogan, “on that puppet’s leg.”

  “Those dolls give me the creeps,” says Chisholm, looking directly at Will, who tries to make his eyes glassy. “There’s something not right about that one.” Leaning forward for a better look, the brakeman puts his hand on the boxer’s shoulder.

  The boxer’s left arm delivers an undercut that snaps Chisholm’s haggard head back. He hits the floor like a bag of flour.

  “Bloody idiot!” says Brogan, turning. He kneels and slaps Chisholm’s face.

  “What . . . what . . . ,” the brakeman moans.

  The severed hand hops onto Will’s knee, and his leg involuntarily jerks.

  Brogan looks over—and then up to the sound of running on the roof. There seems to be shouting, but Will can’t make out the words. A second set of swift footsteps is followed by a third.

  Will can’t see it, but he hears the rear door of the carriage suddenly open—and someone wailing:

  “They got a fecking sasquatch!”

  From the doorway comes a blood-freezing animal wail, and Will sees Brogan’s body tense.

  “Dear mother of . . .” Chisholm squeaks, scrambling to his feet.

  Will senses a large presence enter the car, and at the same moment the smell reaches him—that strange curdled smell that no other creature in the world has.

  “Don’t run!” calls a voice from the rear of the carriage. “You’ll make him charge!”

  Nonetheless Brogan and Chisholm take a few steps back as the sasquatch looms into view, restrained by three trainers holding chains. Goliath is six feet tall, and though his body is lean, it seems like it can barely contain the power and fury beneath the skin. The sasquatch stops and stares long and hard at Brogan, exhaling through his nostrils in hoarse, angry bursts.

  “Easy, Goliath,” says one of the trainers, whom Will recognizes as Christian.

  Without warning Goliath lunges, his chest and muscle-knotted arms straining. The trainers lean back with their f
ull weight. Will can almost feel the heat pouring off the sasquatch.

  “Get that thing away from me!” bellows Brogan, his face gray with terror.

  “I’d drop that knife if I were you,” says Christian.

  Will watches as Brogan lets it clatter to the floor.

  “Goliath seems to know you,” Mr. Dorian remarks, stepping out from behind the trainers.

  Will remembers how, in the mountains, Brogan stabbed the young sasquatch in the shoulder. Clearly Goliath has not forgotten.

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the first time we met,” Mr. Dorian says, and suddenly his polite calm disappears, and Will jerks in surprise at the ringmaster’s rage. “You and your men are not welcome aboard my train, sir! The boy you are looking for is not on these carriages!”

  Goliath gives an unearthly wail as if to emphasize the words.

  “Let this be your last trespass!” Mr. Dorian seethes. “If I see you or any of your men aboard my train again, I will loose Goliath on you. And my enjoyment will match his as he rips your limbs from your body! Do I make myself clear, Mr. Brogan?”

  “Name’s Brinley,” the brakeman mutters.

  “Is it?” says Mr. Dorian. “I bid you good day, sir. Now get out!”

  Brogan and Chisholm beat their retreat to the far end of the car. Will waits for the sound of the closing door.

  After a moment Mr. Dorian looks directly at Will and says, “You can come out now.”

  Maren reaches over and flicks a little switch on the back of Attila the Hun’s hand. Its grip relaxes instantly, and it falls off Will’s leg. He stands uncertainly, keeping his eye on the sasquatch.

  “You all right, Sis?” Christian asks Maren.

  “Of course,” she replies.

  “I’d give you a hug, but Goliath might get jealous.”

  “Thanks for saving the day.”

  “You can take Goliath back to his cage now,” Mr. Dorian tells the trainers.

  “This way, Goliath,” Christian says, with a tug on the chain.

  Will feels a pang of sympathy for the sasquatch. It was born in the mountain wilds, and is now forced to live in prisonlike confinement, with none of its own kind for company. It shrugs against the pull of the chains and turns to stare right at Will with its fathomless eyes. Will stands very still.

  “He remembers you, too,” says Mr. Dorian.

  “In a good way, I hope,” Will murmurs.

  After what seems like a long time, Goliath snorts and follows his trainers out of the car.

  Mr. Dorian’s expression is so severe that Will worries the ringmaster might be angry with him.

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble—” Will begins.

  “Don’t be absurd,” says Mr. Dorian. “None of this is your fault.”

  “How many were there?” Maren asks.

  “Nine this time. It was all I could do to keep our people from fighting.” The ringmaster looks thoughtful. “Nine men. It must be quite an undertaking Mr. Brogan’s planning.”

  “Maybe he’s ready to give up searching,” Maren says hopefully.

  Will swallows. “He knows there’s another key.”

  “Your father’s,” says Mr. Dorian.

  “We have to warn him! They’re planning something big. And if Brogan’s willing to kill a guard . . .”

  “Your father’s no man to be trifled with,” Mr. Dorian says calmly. “I very much doubt our Mr. Brogan would risk such a confrontation. If your father’s in the locomotive, he’s got people around him all the time. Brogan wouldn’t attempt it.”

  Will wishes he were more reassured.

  “As it is, we’re leaving in a matter of hours,” Mr. Dorian says, clapping him on the shoulder. “But first we have to finish your disguise. Madame Lamoine is ready for you.”

  * * *

  Stroke after stroke, the paint goes on, thick and greasy. Will doesn’t like the feel of it on his skin.

  “It dries,” says Madame Lamoine ambiguously.

  She’s done with his face and neck and is now finishing off his hands.

  Maren returns with some clothing draped over her arm.

  “We have an Indian fortune-teller costume that might fit,” she tells Mr. Dorian, who’s overseeing Will’s transformation.

  There is a loose-fitting white shirt with beadwork around the collar and buttons, a pair of white cotton trousers, and a brown leather vest.

  “Stand,” says Mrs. Lamoine, and steps back to look at him. She slaps him here and there, moving him around so she can examine him from every angle.

  “Don’t touch face,” is all she says.

  He thinks he understands what she means about it drying. The paint doesn’t feel quite so wet and heavy.

  “Try them on,” Maren says, holding out the clothes.

  Will takes them behind a faded Japanese screen. He’s worried about where he’ll put his things—especially the key. But he’s relieved to find that the inside of the vest has many ingenious pockets sewn into it. He transfers his items and takes off his borrowed clothes. He’s glad to be rid of them. These new ones fit much better.

  When he steps out, Maren gives a melodramatic gasp. “What have you done with William Everett?” she demands.

  Mr. Dorian nods his approval. “This will do nicely.”

  Will goes to the mirror and stares. He feels like he’s inside a complete stranger, peeping out through their eyeholes.

  “I don’t recognize myself at all.”

  “Excellent to hear,” says Mr. Dorian.

  Will looks older, and somehow fiercer. His teeth are startlingly white, his eyes piercing in his pale brown face. A sense of liberation floats up within him. He’s just performed his own personal disappearing act.

  THE PLAYERS

  * * *

  They don’t look like circus performers as they step off the train in Kirkton. No clown makeup, no sparkly clothes. Will thinks they must look as solemn as a funeral party. There is Mr. Dorian, a sleek raven in his suit and top hat and silver-tipped cane; Maren’s braids are tucked modestly inside the collar of a navy-blue greatcoat that goes to her ankles. And Will himself wears a dark wool jacket over his shirt and trousers, and a cap atop his black head of hair. Only Mr. Beauprey stands out, on account of his awesome size. Even though he won’t be performing with them on the Boundless, the giant insisted on walking them up to colonist class, and carrying their bags. Will wonders if he’s secretly hoping for the chance to throw someone.

  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.”