The Boundless

by Kenneth Oppel

  Maren then runs to the opposite end of the carriage, paying out more line, and hooks the spool to the wall there. She has created her own tightrope down the middle of the car. She springs onto it, her head nearly grazing the ceiling.

  The crowd gives a great cheer. Once on the wire, Maren is like a person transformed. He suddenly doesn’t know her at all. He can only stare in amazement as she skips across the wire, does somersaults, closes her eyes and walks backward, lies down on her stomach and pretends to fall asleep.

  Despite all the good cheer of the crowd, Will notices how some of the men look at her, a furtive hungry look he doesn’t like.

  Maren invites people to toss things up at her, and she catches them one after another: a hat, a bottle, a sausage—and proceeds to juggle them all. After throwing the objects back to their rightful owners, she hops down, unhooks her tightrope, and cartwheels down the aisle to the stage.

  It’s time for the disappearing act. Will watches as chains are placed upon her by an audience member and she is covered by a giant scarf. He stares hard, wanting to understand the trick—and nearly jumps out of his skin when she taps him on the shoulder behind the curtain.

  “How do you do that?” he demands.

  “I’ll never tell,” she replies, rosy-cheeked and breathless.

  He wishes he could draw her just like that.

  Mr. Dorian pulls back the curtain to reveal all of them, and there is a tsunami of applause. Even those lucky men and women who had seats are now on their feet, clapping and shouting “Bravo” and “Brava” and other words Will doesn’t understand. A dizzying happiness blossoms inside him.

  The audience surges toward them, and Will is worried they’ll be crushed. They’re all three taken hold of, and hoisted up onto shoulders and carried out of the car into another, where there is a stove, covered with pots.

  Bundles are moved, people shift, and Will finds himself eased onto a bench beside Maren. She looks as bewildered as he feels. Scarcely has he been seated, when a bowl of food is put on his lap, and a spoon into his hand. And Will understands they have been invited to dinner.

  The food smells delicious, but he’s hardly taken a mouthful before people are touching him, and asking him questions in different languages. He knows he mustn’t reply in English, so he only smiles and nods, and sometimes repeats the few Hindi words he’s memorized.

  Across the sea of heaving bodies, he sees someone who looks Indian, trying to reach him. What if the man wants to talk to Will? He’ll be found out! Luckily, musical instruments suddenly appear. Strange stringed things, mouth harps, a contraption that looks a bit like an accordion.

  The colonists are putting on their own show now, maybe as a way of thanking the performers. Will feels a bit smushed and deafened, but it is all so good-natured that he doesn’t mind too much.

  A drink is thrust into his hand, and the man looks at him so expectantly that Will doesn’t see he has any choice but to slug it back. It sears all the way down his throat. The crowd gives a cheer.

  By the time the dancing starts, Will has had two more of the drinks and thinks dancing is probably the best thing in the world. He enters a sweaty web of arms and stamps about the floor, having no idea what he’s doing. Nearby he sees Maren being whirled about, a dazzling colorful blur. He wants to grab hold of her, to stop her moving, to feel her skin against his hands.

  And suddenly they are pressed together, and the crowd is close around them and clapping hands eagerly.

  “They want us to dance,” Maren says.

  He almost replies in English, tells her he can’t dance, but it’s too late. She’s taken his hands and starts leading him in a mangled version of the waltz. After a few steps he tries to lead, and stamps on her feet, and then she leads again, and before long they are both laughing helplessly.

  A woman’s cry of dismay suddenly cuts through the music. The instruments stop. There’s a flurry of harsh words. The crowd shifts, angling itself in the direction of the noise.

  Will looks over to see one of Mr. Peters’s burly guards. He towers over a shorter man, whose face is flushed and furrowed with outrage. A woman, maybe his wife, is shouting at the guard, while a small boy watches, clinging to her side, his face pale with fear.

  The guard shoves the other man against the wall, reaches inside his jacket, and pulls out a slender bottle. The man tries to grab it back, but the guard strikes him across the face.

  For a moment everyone in the car is silent. Then several other colonists shout out and move aggressively toward the guard, but Peters’s man primes his rifle, and the passengers halt and step out of his way.

  “Is there a problem?” Mr. Dorian asks the guard as he passes.

  “Nothing to do with you,” grunts the man, and leaves the carriage.

  The woman is crying openly now.

  “Their boy is sick,” a man says to Dorian. “Mr. Peters sells medicine. The father of boy has not money to pay. Mr. Peters gives medicine but wants money later. The father tries to sell something to makes money, but is no good. Now Peters takes back medicine.”

  “He has no money at all?” Mr. Dorian asks.

  “Only food for trip—but Mr. Peters doesn’t want food. He wants deed.”

  Maren frowns. “Deed?”

  “Land deed. What family comes for.”

  “Ah,” says Mr. Dorian. “His government land grant.”

  Will knows about these. Most of the colonists are on their way to claim their land and start farms and ranches. The deed is their proof of ownership. Without it they would have nothing.

  “It seems our Mr. Peters is also a land speculator,” Mr. Dorian says.

  Will is looking at the little boy, his pinched face. He’s never felt such a hot rush of indignation. Without thinking, he marches after Peters’s guard.

  Maren is close on his heels. “Amit,” she whispers, “what are you doing?”

  He ignores her, keeps going, all the way to Peters’s car. He’s aware of Maren at his side, and Mr. Dorian not far behind. She hisses into his ear, “Don’t do anything stupid!”

  Will has no tricks, no power. But he does have almost three dollars in his pocket.

  He bursts into the curtained room to find Mr. Peters eating from a fine plate and drinking a glass of wine. The guards both stand at his sudden entrance.

  “Ah, the circus boy,” he says. “I’m sorry I missed your show. I’ve never been one for tawdry entertainments.”

  From his pocket Will takes the coins and places them before Mr. Peters.

  “Medicine,” he says.

  “Ah, so you do speak a little English.”

  Will says nothing, knowing he’s made a mistake—but surely Amit would have picked up a few English words quickly.

  “He wants the medicine for that boy,” Maren says beside him.

  Mr. Peters eyes Will with amusement—and curiosity. “I’m glad to see your ringmaster pays you so handsomely. I’ve heard some can be terrible slave drivers. I shall happily sell you the medicine.” He nods at his guard, who takes the little bottle from the shelf and tosses it to Will.

  Will catches and pockets it.

  “Not only rich, but a Good Samaritan,” says Mr. Peters. “It’s heartwarming. We’re quite the same. It was lucky I had the right medicine for that boy. If the conductor were to hear there was a sick family aboard, he might turn them off the train, where their situation would be altogether more desperate. It’s better this way, handled by compassionate fellows like us.”

  Will knows this is some kind of threat: Keep quiet about this—about what I do here—or the family will suffer.

  Will turns to Maren, pretending he hasn’t understood a word, and sees Maren’s face pale with rage. This time it’s he who puts a hand on her arm, afraid she’ll do something rash.

  “Don’t forget your change,” Mr. Peters says.
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  Will turns back and takes the coins offered him. Mr. Dorian is watching from the curtain silently, and actually tips his hat to Mr. Peters before turning to leave.

  Will makes his way through the cars to the boy’s family, and holds out the medicine bottle to the mother. Her eyes widen with surprise.

  “That man, he will not come to take it back?” the father asks nervously.

  “No,” says Maren.

  The boy looks at the bottle and bursts into tears.

  “Why is he crying?” Maren asks.

  “The taste,” says his mother, “he doesn’t like it.”

  The boy sobs something that sounds like “boat.”

  “What’s he saying?” Maren asks.

  “There is a toy, a boat, we leave behind,” the mother says. “And he is sad about this still.”

  Into Maren’s ear Will whispers, “Ask her what it looks like.”

  Maren asks, and Will waits as the mother translates the question for her son. The boy smiles, and his pale face becomes animated. He prattles for a long time. As the mother tells Maren the details, Will pulls out his sketchbook and starts to draw, rapidly but with as much detail as possible.

  He tears the page from the book and hands it to the boy.

  The boy frowns and points to the smokestack.

  The mother says something sharply to the boy, and his eyes fill with tears again.

  “What’s wrong?” Maren asks.

  “He is greedy,” the mother replies.

  Will looks at the boy and sees him trace an outline of a bigger smokestack on the picture. Will reaches over and with a quick flourish of his pencil enlarges the smokestack and adds a healthy puff of smoke.

  The boy beams at Will, and he feels like a hero.

  “I hope your boy gets better soon,” says Maren.

  “Thank you,” the father says to them. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  “Circus . . .”

  “Zirkus . . .”

  “Sirkuksen . . .”

  “Cirkuszi . . .”

  The word that marked Will’s entrance marks his exit, with cheers and clapping, as a surly Drurie leads them through the last of the colonist cars. Hefting his small suitcase, Will feels suddenly exhausted. He’s never wanted bed so badly. Drurie brings them to a reinforced door that requires two keys to unlock. When he swings it open, the noise of the tracks pours in. Cold air smacks Will in the face. It’s very dark outside now.

  Across the couplings a second porter stands behind the lighted window of the other car. He nods at Drurie and opens his door—and Will moves his leaden body after Mr. Dorian and Maren across the shuddering platform to third class.

  MUSKEG

  * * *

  “Mind your step, please,” says the porter as he ushers them inside. He’s a gangly fellow whose narrow wrists shoot past his cuffs. “The mail car’s a bit cluttered. We don’t get many people coming through here.”

  Will steps around bulging canvas bags. It’s a long double-decker car, windowless, and lit by gaslight. Will is reminded of a beehive. A small army of uniformed men sorts mail at narrow tables, flinging letters and oddly-shaped bundles into open sacks. The entire left side of the carriage is floor-to-ceiling pigeonholes. Workers, each with a bag slung over his left shoulder, stand on tall ladders, sorting mail into the holes. The ladders run on rails and whiz to and fro with astonishing speed.

  “This is our postmaster, James Kilgour,” the gangly porter says.

  A white-whiskered man in an official cap looks up from his clipboard. Will notices he only has a thumb and index finger on his right hand.

  “Good evening to you,” the postmaster says, and then: “Owney! Where’s that package for Edmonton?”

  Startled, Will looks down to the floor as a scruffy brown-and-white mutt pushes a parcel toward Mr. Kilgour’s feet. Then he sits back and looks immensely pleased with himself.

  “Good boy,” the postmaster says, tossing the bundle into an open sack and checking off something on his clipboard. He gives the dog a good scratch between his ears. “This is Owney. He’s our mail dog.”

  Owney’s brown triangular ears perk up, and his tail thumps appreciatively. From his collar hang so many tags that Will is amazed the dog can raise his head. Will almost asks what they’re all for, but stops himself just in time. Mr. Kilgour seems to sense his question.

  “People give these to him wherever we stop. He’s been all over. Houston. Churchill. Ann Arbor. The mayors, they present him with the tags. He’s a good-luck charm, our Owney. Gets the mail through on time, and we’ve never had a wreck, the fifteen years the mutt’s been with us.”

  “He’s a charming little fellow,” Maren says, bending to give him a pat.

  Will pats him too, mostly to have the chance to bump his hand against Maren’s.

  “Delightful,” says Mr. Dorian, unmoved. “Shall we head on?”

  “Give us a moment,” says the postmaster. “Mail drop coming, and it gets a bit crowded up ahead.” He checks his pocket watch. “Harrison! Reid! Let’s open her up!”

  Two men rush over and pull a chain to raise a tall metal panel in the carriage’s side. Night air gallops in. In the darkness Will can see telegraph posts flashing past.

  “Bag on!” shouts the postmaster over the clatter of the track.

  Rising like a mast from the center of the car is a sturdy metal pole. Two arms jut from it, one three feet above the other. Harrison and Reid hook a mail bag onto the lower arm, and then swivel both arms so they’re sticking straight out through the big window.

  “Here we come!” shouts one of the men, poking his head out.

  “Get your head back in, you damn fool!” says Kilgour. “How many times have I told you? You want it taken off?” The postmaster rolls his eyes at Will.

  There is a blur past the window, and a tremendous clattering noise, and Will sees the bag on the lower arm disappear—and at the same moment the upper arm, empty seconds ago, swings inside with a hefty canvas bag.

  “See that!” says Kilgour with a proud shake of his head, even though he must’ve seen this a thousand times. “Their arm just swipes our bag of mail, and we swipe theirs! All right, lads. Let’s get sorting! We’ve got an hour before our next drop, and then we’re into the muskeg!”

  “Bye, Owney,” Maren says to the dog as they leave. The mutt wags his tail and then starts snuffling around various bundles on the floor as though he can read their addresses.

  The porter leads them through to the next car. Once the door closes behind them, Will notices how much quieter it is than colonist class. There must be more insulation—and better suspension, too, because the ride doesn’t feel so rough. The floor is freshly painted white, and there are decorative swirls around the ceiling. Gas lamps are set at intervals along the wall. There’s a stove at either end of the car, but no cooking smells or soot.

  Right now the carriage is being put to bed. Stewards are handing out pillows and blankets and lowering the sleeping berths. Heavy curtains hang in between for privacy. It is crowded, but much less so than colonist class. People are looking at them, and Will is aware how he, Maren, and Mr. Dorian stand out amongst the weathered cattle hands and farmers in undershirts and denim trousers.

  After several more cars the porter leads them past storage compartments and crew quarters, and finally opens the door of a tiny cabin. He stands back to let them inside. There are three bunks against one wall, mostly obscuring the single window. Against the opposite wall there’s a narrow bench. Scarcely room to change your mind—that’s what Will’s mother used to say of their old apartment.

  “There’s shelves on the facing wall for your things,” the porter says. “I hope this is adequate. It’s the only free cabin in third class.”

  “We’re extremely grateful,” Mr. Dorian says. “Thank you.”

&n
bsp; “I had one of the porters prepare your beds, and there’s a washroom just at the end of the car. Dining car is a few beyond that. Will you be wanting a meal tonight?”

  “We’ve already eaten, thank you,” says Maren.

  “Past the dining cars you’ll find the saloon, where you’ll be performing tomorrow at midday,” says the porter. “It’s a goodly space.”

  “Excellent,” Mr. Dorian says, closing the door. “Good night.”

  Will stows his small suitcase on a shelf and perches on the bench. His knees almost touch the lower bunk.

  “You were rash in the colonist cars,” Mr. Dorian tells him quietly. “You revealed more than you should have.”

  Will wondered if he’d be reprimanded. “I’m sorry. But it was terrible, what Peters was doing. Why doesn’t Sam Steele put a stop to it?”

  “The Mounties don’t patrol the colonist cars,” Mr. Dorian says. “They’re left to sort out their own affairs.”

  “I’ll talk to my father about it,” says Will. “They’re too crammed back there. Cattle are treated better.”

  “I agree with Will,” Maren says. “It’s not fair.”

  “Many things aren’t fair,” says Mr. Dorian placidly—but for the first time, Will realizes there’s anger beneath this unnerving calm of his. “My father’s people came from France to claim this land. Then the English came and took it from the French. Later the Americans tried to take it from the English. As a Métis I’ve seen my people shunted and shamed. I’m not numb to the hardship of these new colonists. But they are, after all, just another group of Europeans come to take land that once belonged only to the Natives.”

  Will hasn’t thought of this, and doesn’t know how to reply. It’s all more complicated than he can fathom.

  “Nonetheless,” the ringmaster says, “it was a very kind thing that you did for that boy. And your performance was excellent.”