The Outlaw and the Upstart King

by Rod Duncan

  The headaches started halfway through the first day. They weren’t like anything he’d felt before. When he stood up from packing ice around the pipes, the world started closing to black, as if there wasn’t enough blood flowing to his brain. So he knelt again and put his head down on the dirt, until they shouted at him to get on with it.

  “That’s why we don’t have you stirring,” said the thermometer man. “Don’t want you toppling in!”

  There was a laugh from the others at that.

  “I’m sick,” Elias said.

  “We’ve all been there, son. It’ll pass.”

  The old man was right. After the third week, Elias was strong enough to try out the work of stirring. This he did with a small paddle, wooden so there’d be no chance of it making a spark. That was another way the glycer-fortis factory might blow.

  One morning Elias woke to find the camp quiet. Others in the bunkhouse were sleeping, though it was well after dawn. He stepped outside. There was no one around, so he sat in a splash of sunshine and let its warmth seep into his bones. Lost to thought, he didn’t notice the thermometer man step out to join him.

  “You’re turning yellow,” said the man, lowering himself next to Elias.

  It was true. The colour had started in the beds of his nails and spread out over his skin.

  “How long before I get to be like you?”

  “You’ll never catch up.”

  “Why aren’t we at work?” Elias asked.

  “It’s the commander’s birthday. Everyone rests. But for the house servants. They cook the feast. We might even get a taste of the leftovers, if his dogs aren’t too hungry.”

  After a time, Elias said, “How do I get out of here?”

  “Try walking.”

  “I’m not joking. Haven’t you thought of it?”

  “And I’m not joking neither. Guards might have the day off too. But it’s dangerous out there. If the wolves don’t get you, the wild men will.”

  “Where would you go?” Elias asked.

  “I can’t,” said the thermometer man. “Here…” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small jar of green glass.

  Elias took it. A lump of something rolled within. He was about to shake it, but the man put his hand on Elias’s arm.

  “Gently,” he said. “Gently.”

  So Elias pulled out the wide stopper. Putting it to his nose, he breathed in a familiar smell. “Glycer-fortis?”

  The man dipped the tip of his little finger into the jar, touching the lump, then put the same finger to the underside of his tongue. “They soak the glycer-fortis into a kind of dirt. Makes it safer. But not safe. You don’t get the headaches no more?”

  “No,” said Elias.

  “Your body’s gotten used to it. But tomorrow, when we’re back to work, you’ll get the headaches all over again. Just from one day off.”

  Elias dipped his finger into the jar and then wiped it on the underside of his tongue as he’d been shown. His mouth and throat buzzed from the chemical taste. He felt his heart put in an extra beat.

  “That’s the way,” said the man.

  “Where would you go?” Elias asked, again. “Where’s home to you?”

  “Oregon. That’s where I grew up. Ah, you should see it. I still do, up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “And I can hear the woodpeckers drumming in the forests. It’s a sound like nothing else. I’d love to hear it one more time. Before I’m gone.”

  “So come with me. The two of us together. Spring’s near. It’s warmer every day. Right now we could walk over the Yukon. They say it’s going to break any time. If we got it right, we’d be on the other side and the ice would be cracking. They’d not risk following us. If we walked out in the night, we’d be ten miles gone before they knew it. You understand the country. The two of us together – we’d have a chance.”

  While Elias had been whispering this, the thermometer man gazed off into the distance, as if picturing it. His face wore a sad smile.

  “I would like it,” he said. “Very much. And I would do it. But…” He shook his head. “We’d neither of us live.”

  “You can’t be sure!”

  “Oh, I can.”

  He held up the glass pot so the sunlight came through it, tourmaline green. The glycer-fortis was a pea-sized lump within. “This would last us a few weeks. Then it’d be gone. For all the danger of this stuff, our bodies come to need it. You could live for a few days, maybe. But I’ve been here longer. Without it my heart would stop. They don’t need guards to keep me.”

  By the time Elias had been working in the factory for eight months, the yellow tint had crept into his own hair. One day he saw the thermometer man staring into the oily liquid in the reaction flask with a kind of longing. Then he seemed to notice Elias watching. He looked around, almost guiltily, smiling a smile that was false.

  It had lasted only a second, but that night Elias couldn’t sleep. He kept circling the memory, trying to find a way to explain it other than the one that had hit him at the time.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked the next morning in the canteen hut, as they shovelled oatmeal porridge into their mouths.

  “I’m good,” the man said. “Always good.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I said so, didn’t I!”

  “It’s just… yesterday, I thought, perhaps…”

  “You know nothing!” the man shouted. It was almost a confession. Neither of them spoke again.

  The next day a gangly boy arrived to learn the backbreaking job of packing ice. No one said anything. But they all looked at Elias, who’d been promoted to watching the thermometers ahead of his time. He didn’t know if they were accusing him or if they’d just wanted the job themselves. The mercury inched upwards towards the red line, then crept back down.

  No one could have known that he’d done it. Not for sure. He’d told them he was fetching more wood for the stove. From the woodpile, he’d circled the camp, keeping out of the lamplight.

  “What do you want, boy?” the overseer had asked.

  “You said I should tell if one of them was tired of life.”

  When Elias’s first shift watching thermometers was done, he hurried ahead to the bunkhouse before the others. The thermometer man’s blankets had been stripped and folded. The crate at the foot of the bed was empty. As an afterthought, he felt under the thin mattress. His fingers closed on something small and smooth. He knew what it was even before pulling it from its hiding place. The green glass jar with its stopper, holding a small lump of glycer-fortis. The thing the old man couldn’t live without.

  The others trooped in and dropped themselves to their beds. The gangly boy was in tears. There were scowls from the old hands. I saved you, Elias wanted to say. You don’t know it, but I saved you all.

  Chapter 6

  Sitting on the beach at New Whitby, Elias watched the sun setting over the western headland. He’d been remembering his time in the Yukon: the ordeals that had formed this new version of the man he’d once been. When the months of his outlawing had been almost complete, they let him go. He was free, they said, laughing. And from the generosity of their hearts, they gave him a lump of glycer-fortis to keep him alive. For a little while. There would be more to follow, they said, if he went back to Newfoundland and did their bidding. Two small tasks would be the price of the drug.

  Turning his hand, he inspected the skin. The yellow had faded, though a tint still remained in the beds of his nails. Nothing that would be noticed. He picked up a pebble and cast it towards the water. It landed short, skittering across the rocks. So he tried another and this time got it to splash into an incoming wave.

  He’d enough of the drug to last a month. Slender time, which he’d planned to use to the full. Then Jago had turned up and demanded to meet the smugglers who’d taken him off Newfoundland. Elias had no choice but to obey, much as he hated the thought of it. One month had shrunk to seven days.

  At least Elias ha
d completed one of his tasks. And without pain. The dogs might be able to sniff out gunpowder, even a few grains. But they didn’t know the scent of glycer-fortis. The stuff could be smuggled without fear. That was news he could trade with.

  He held the glass jar up to the pale western sky, tilting it so the small lump rolled within. He’d been rationing himself. But too long between doses and his heart picked up that irregular beat, leaving him short of breath.

  The stopper came away with a muted pop. He loved the sound and the smell of it. And he hated them. Dipping his cloak pin, he wiped it on the underside of his tongue then lay back on the shingle, feeling the chemical warmth seep through his relaxing chest.

  With his head on the ground, the wash and draw of the waves sounded different. Three gulls flew overhead. One held something in its beak. The others swooped on it, trying to snatch the morsel away.

  Elias’s time had been stolen. But there’d been fortune also. Jago was unusual among the Patron Protectors. An upstart, the others called him, a man careless of custom and practice. It was always going to be Jago to provide for Elias’s second task. Only an upstart could wish for the world to be turned on its head. And that is what they were going to do.

  He waited until full dark before returning to the Salt Ray Inn. There were fewer drinkers than the night before. News of Jago’s interest in the place must have spread. That would be a black mark by Elias’s name, though it hadn’t been his fault. He stepped to the tap, where the dark-haired barmaid eyed him with suspicion.

  “A pint,” he said, sliding his last half coin over the smooth wood. “Please.”

  She pulled the pump. Beer frothed in the tankard. He tried a smile but it felt false and her expression stayed icy. He was about to ask if the mistress could spare him a minute, but the barmaid cut him off, saying, “I’ve been told not to talk to you.”

  Before he could get a word in, she’d grabbed a cloth and ducked down to the floor. Elias had to lean over the bar to see her. She was wiping the flagstones under the tap, giving them more sweat and muscle than ever they deserved.

  “Excuse me?” he said, but got no answer.

  Money might have seemed the least of his worries. But he still needed some if he wasn’t to starve. If the mistress of the Salt Ray wasn’t going to speak with him, he’d be needing it all the more.

  He stayed clear of the table he’d used the night before. Only fools believe lightning doesn’t strike twice. People were watching him as he took a table in the lamplight. How long, he wondered, before news spread beyond New Whitby that Elias No-Thumbs had returned. Jago wouldn’t be the only one wanting a piece of him.

  The dice were too white. Too conspicuously new. If he’d had some fine oil, he could have worked it into the surface and started building up a patina. Bone becomes more like ivory with age and handling. The rough edges of the cubes annoyed him too. It would take time for them to wear pebble smooth. But for all that, his new dice did sing a beautiful tune. He cast them onto the table. Oh, the soft clatter of them. Heads turned. The sound would be a lover’s whisper to any gambling man.

  He cast them again and again, counting the throws and the number of sixes. He pretended to not see the glances of nearby drinkers. They’d be wanting to know how a man could play dice against himself. Someone would pluck up the courage and ask. By then they’d be ready. A man needs beer in his belly before he’ll slap silver on the table.

  He cast the dice, read the spots, added the numbers. If they were true, they’d turn up sixes one-sixth of the time. The more throws he took, the closer the numbers came to being right. Not bad work for a man with no thumbs.

  It was a woman with a lopsided nose who took his bait. She made it seem as if it was just a trip to the bar. But Elias had caught her watching. On the way back to her table, she skewed off course for a closer look at him.

  He held out the dice to her, palm upwards. She acted surprised.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  And then: “Why do you play dice on your own?”

  “I’d play solitaire, but my cards were burned.”

  “I…” She glanced around before continuing in a whisper, “I heard about that.”

  She might be a fisherwoman, Elias thought, to judge by her clothes. Or a small-time trader. Not a peasant, yet not exactly comfortable. There was a curl of Irish in her accent, a hint that she might be knit from the early settlers. She was older than him by a few years. He cast the dice again. They tumbled to a stop near where she stood, showing a six and a three. She licked her lips and then slid onto the bench opposite him. They were full lips.

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  “I… That is… I haven’t. But…”

  “Would you like to?”

  “How do I do it?”

  This was a surprise. A gambler should know such things, even if dice wasn’t her regular game. She might be play-acting. But if so, she’d made a good pretence.

  He scooped the dice from the table’s edge and held them out to her again. “Try it. Just let them roll.”

  She nodded. As she took them, her eyes lingered on his for a fraction too long.

  “They’re lovely,” she said. “Did you… Did you make them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How… I mean… with your hands like that?” And then, when he didn’t answer: “I’ve heard stories about you. They say you’ve come back to take revenge.”

  “Who says?”

  “I don’t know. Someone. My brother heard it. We don’t believe it. Unless you say it’s true. Then we’d believe it, of course. But I’m not asking.”

  “I’ve come home. That’s all.”

  “That’s good then,” she said, though seeming disappointed. “Where do you sleep? I mean, do you have a house or something?”

  Elias was sure now. If the light had been stronger, he’d have been able to see her cheeks glowing. It wasn’t the song of the dice that had called to her. It was him. Or the things people had said about him.

  “I don’t have a place,” he said

  “I do,” said she, too quickly.

  The topmost laces of her bodice were loose. He hadn’t noticed that before. She leaned forwards and let the dice roll from her hand. A two and another six. Damn, but he’d lost count. He found himself gazing at her breasts.

  “You live with your brother?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Elias had opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, when a shadow fell over the table. The woman with the crooked nose sat back suddenly and grabbed her tankard. Elias looked up to see the mistress of the Salt Ray Inn.

  “Well met,” the mistress said.

  “You too,” said the woman with the crooked nose.

  “How’s the beer?”

  “Fine. Good. Thank you,” she said.

  “No. Thank you for your custom.”

  The woman with the crooked nose clearly wanted to go, but the mistress of the Salt Ray Inn was standing with folded arms, solidly blocking her escape.

  “How’s trade?” the mistress asked.

  “Good.”

  So, not a fisherwoman after all.

  “And how’s your husband?”

  Elias could see the blush in the woman’s face this time, even in the lamplight.

  “He’s good. Thank you.”

  “I hear business keeps him in Labrador?”

  The woman lifted her tankard and pushed her way out, hurrying to get back to her table at the other side of the saloon. Elias watched her go.

  “I’m told you wanted to speak to me,” the mistress said. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

  A doorway behind the bar let them into an earth-floored room of shelves and barrels. A lantern, flour sacks and cured meats hung from hooks in the central beam. The barmaid stopped carving strips from a ham and stared at him. He expected the mistress to send her away, but the two women stood shoulder to shoulder facing him,
arms folded.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” he said.

  No response.

  “I’m grateful for this morning. I’m in your debt already. But there’s something more I need. It’ll be your boon if I get it. I didn’t want to see Jago last night. But he came to your bar and you saw what happened.”

  “You’re blaming me?” The mistress’s tone was sharp.

  “No. No. But I’m saying it wasn’t my fault either. It just happened. And now he’s wanting something. If I don’t give it, he’ll be back in six days.”

  A glance passed between the two women. No more than a flick of the eyes, but Elias had seen it. The thought of having Jago at the Inn had panicked them.

  “I need to get a message to Short Harbour,” he said.

  “Then you’d better start walking.”

  “I need to get an answer back before the six days are up.”

  “Try walking faster.”

  “Jago took my winnings, or I could pay.”

  “But you still have silver for beer.” This from the barmaid.

  “That was my last scrap,” he said, directing his answer to the mistress. “It’s what it took to get me here, face to face with you.”

  The two women turned to each other: a consultation of small expressions and nods, which he couldn’t read.

  “I could send a message,” the mistress said, at last. “Carrier pigeon to Stephenville. From there, another to Woodstock. Then a rider to Short Harbour. Two days, if you’re lucky with the weather. Two days back. Twenty American dollars would see it done. It’d only happen on my good name. Folk know I pay my debts. What would I get in return?”

  “Jago’s going to give me a reward.”

  “You think so?”

  “Maybe. But if I can’t do what he asks, I’ll have no choice but hide. He’ll come looking. He’ll come here.”

  “You ask much,” the mistress said. “But all you offer are hopes and threats.”

  “I have nothing else.”