It’s a letter, addressed to me.
I catch my breath and read:
Dearest Hallelujah,
One of these days, I fear, Captain Greeney will come for the treasures and come for me. I hope I am prepared, but this letter is for you in case I am caught unaware.
I have spent my life traveling the world. It is a marvelous world to behold. From the smallest insects of the plains to the behemoths of the oceans, from the frigid floating ice islands to the volcanic sandy beaches even now being born in the seas, the world is ripe for discovery and appreciation. Every element of nature, the moon’s phases, the sun, the winds, the clouds, the seas, the animals, and the mountains and valleys, functions in concert. It has been a great blessing to be able to see and study so many wondrous things. I think, child, that you, too, are destined for this kind of life, one of curiosity and toil and learning.
I write now to warn you of one mystery I have yet to understand, and, I must admit, one that I fear. It is the artifact that truly interests Captain Greeney and is the one he must not find. I am afraid he could, frankly, exploit its tremendous power and destroy our family. What else the artifact is capable of, I am not sure. For it prevents careful study. I am too weak to handle it much. It calls to me in wicked ways. It conjures enormous anger and thoughts of revenge in me. It begs me to hold it. I don’t know what I might do if I entertained it for long. But I fear the worst.
For now, I know it magnifies negative feelings, evokes difficult memories and terrible prophecies, and that it is best kept in a cool place. Heat seems to galvanize its power. And it is magic. Or, rather, the source of its power is unknown, undiscovered by me. For all my years of learning and logic, I must admit that some phenomena cannot be explained. I also know, based on anecdotes I have heard but can hardly believe, that the artifact must not be destroyed. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DESTROY IT. If the stories are true, the consequences of its destruction are as terrible as anything I can imagine. The item I write of is the Medicine Head. It calls to me. It calls to others. Not everyone. I do not know how it selects, but it does. I have seen you attracted to it, too, Hallelujah. I have seen you stand near it with your ears alert. Be careful, but be courageous.
Kansas, with its heat, is not a safe place for the artifact. If it is ever safe for me to return to New Bedford, there is a good man there who will help me take it to the coldest place on earth, the place that bears my name. His name is Captain Abbot, and as the world’s best whaling captain, he is familiar with the iciest and most treacherous seas. He is a frightening man, full of wild tales and bad spirits. But he is the only one, I believe, who could make the journey. No one else on earth is as familiar with that deadly region of the sea. No one else on earth has as little to lose as Captain Abbot.
I write this now as though my time is short. Perhaps I will be able to dispose of the Medicine Head myself, and I will rip this letter to shreds. If not, I will sign off now, entrusting you with this great responsibility. I love you, your sister, and your mother very much. You are the brightest stars in my universe. And you, Hallelujah Wonder, have enormous intellect and heart. Where I have failed, I trust you will succeed. Your greatest gift is your everlasting curiosity about the world. Keep it, my darling daughter.
Your devoted father,
Charles Wonder
My eyes grow bleary and hot. And then I cry like a baby all over the letter. I hold it to my chest. I sob. I’m loud and shaky. I miss Father so much.
He’d be so disappointed in me if he could see me now, bawling and frightened and not at all like the girl with the enormous intellect and heart he hoped for. I let it all out, and after a while, a long while in which I try to cry out every bad thing that’s ever happened to my family—my brothers dying, my mother fading into herself, my father’s trial, my father’s murder, Captain Greeney hunting us, the fire—I finally calm down and fold the letter.
I was correct about what to do with the Medicine Head. I figured it out on my own. I discovered its sensitivity to heat and cold all by myself. I didn’t need anyone to tell me or guide me. I was smart enough to use my own observation and mind. I think maybe Father would be proud about that. Maybe he would be proud that I thought of Antarctica, too, before I read the letter.
I think maybe I do have a good knot in my skull.
Maybe I can do this.
CHAPTER 15
Priss is back. Her face is sooty and sad. There are clean streaks where tears have run down her cheeks. I suppose she’s got bad news about the Millers. She’s preparing a supper of beet soup, bread, and a bit of cheese. We all eat together at the table, and even though so many bad things have happened, it’s nice to look around at all the people I love right here in one room. Even Fob sits there, nose poised on the corner of the table.
We finish, and Eustace settles Ruby into Father’s old study, which Priss has converted into a place for Ruby to stay. I talk to Priss.
“The Millers were killed last night,” she says. “Burned in their beds.” Priss stares off. “They were found like that, together, as if they had simply fallen asleep.”
I cross my arms over my chest and squeeze myself. “Thank goodness,” I say, “they were probably killed by the smoke before the flames got them.”
“Thank the Lord,” says Priss.
She’s always saying things like that, about God. Mother was that way, too, before she stopped talking. I’m not sure if Priss means she’s thankful to God or if she simply uses it as an expression. One nice thing about religion is that it can help a girl deal with bad things, like death. If you believe in a religion, you might feel like you’ll get to see all those dead people again someday. Father never subscribed to religion, and I don’t, either. I trust in science. But even I have to admit that the science of death, the idea that death is forever, is difficult to believe all the way. I sure would like it if science had a way to prove that I could see my father again someday. But there’s no evidence to suggest that I’ll ever see him or the Millers again.
But then I’m startled by a thought. “Are Ruby and Eustace going to be free, then?”
“No,” Priss says. “Probably not. I heard that the Jessups have already sent word to Mr. Miller’s brother in Missouri to come and collect his property.”
“What?” My face flushes with anger and fear. I can’t let my best friend get moved away from me to go and be a slave somewhere else. “So Eustace is going to have to go to Missouri?”
“I’m not sure,” says Priss. “But that is the way slavery works, Lu.”
“Did you see Captain Greeney?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I don’t think so, I mean. There were a lot of men putting out fires and collecting the dead for burial. It’ll take a day or two, probably.”
Urgency hits me. “We can’t sit here and wait for the Missourians to come get Eustace. And we can’t sit here and wait for Captain Greeney to come back for the Medicine Head.” I’m prepared for her to change her mind and to turn motherly like she sometimes does when she remembers she’s older than me, but she doesn’t.
“I agree” is what she says. “I can tell you’ve got a plan, Hallelujah. And I’m not going to stop you.” She folds a napkin in her lap. Then she looks up at me. Her eyes are wet but soft. “How long will you be gone, and what should I do if Greeney comes back before you do?”
I look to Father’s rifle above the mantel. Priss knows what I am thinking. But I know Priss would never hurt anyone.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be away,” I say. “A long time. Remember Father’s voyages to the Southern Ocean?”
She nods.
“Long as that, I guess,” I say. “As for Captain Greeney, I don’t think he’ll come here. I think he’ll be after me.” I remember the way Captain Greeney knew the Medicine Head was in that crate during the fire. It calls to him, too.
Just then Ruby comes in, and Eustace and Fob follow behind her. Eustace has a guilty, low-eyed look about him. He told his mother everything, it seems. I kn
ow he’s embarrassed about it, as though he thinks I’ll think he’s a big tattletale or a big baby. I do often think those things, but tonight I don’t care.
“I’ll take care of business here, Hallelujah Wonder,” Ruby says. “I know what’s going on, and I’m not gonna let anyone hurt Mrs. Wonder or Priss long as I’m here.”
Knowing there’s an adult here to help with Mother makes me feel better about leaving Priss.
“And I know those Missouri folks you’re talking about,” she adds, “and I’m not letting my boy go there.” She sits down at the table and groans in pain. She slides the rising bread dough to her and kneads her hands into it. She pulls and hits and folds it.
“You two go on,” she says. “Get him out of this crazy place with all these crazy people running around, killing each other, and burning everything down. Don’t worry about us.” She beats the bread. Her eyes get squinty, and I can see they are full of tears. The tears that have been shed today could water all the crops in Kansas.
“Ruby?” I say. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Ma,” says Eustace, “are you sure? Will you be all right?”
“Eustace could get killed here,” Ruby says. “Or he could be sold away from me tomorrow or the next day. I know these people of the Millers. I know what they’re like.” She pounds the dough, then pulls it, then folds it. “They’re not like the dead masters. They don’t have a kind bone in their body.” She flours the table and slaps the dough on top of the flour. She shakes more flour on top of the dough. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “They won’t want me. I’m too old. Knees don’t work. Eyes going bad. Eat like a horse. I’d be more trouble to them than I’m worth. But my Eustace? My big, strong, good boy, Eustace?” Her top lip starts to curl up and her breaths get shorter. “They’d take Eustace and work him to death or make it so I never hear of him again, like my other boys.” Then she heaves and cries full on. Mother emerges from the other room, stands in the doorway, and leans against it. She’s been up and listening. Her eyes are glossy and her cheeks are splotched with red, the way they used to get when she’d cry.
Ruby looks at Mother in the doorway. “All those sweet sons,” Ruby says, “the child one and the half-grown one and the grown one. All gone.” She moans and wails for herself and for Mother, too. She goes back to pounding the dough.
Mother shuffles toward Ruby very slowly with one arm reached out before her and the other at her chest with a closed fist, the way she used to hold it when her own boys passed, in a way that seems to put a weight on the place where the baby boys once rested their heads. Then Mother puts a frail, skeletal hand on Ruby’s shoulder and squeezes.
Ruby keeps beating the bread dough but chokes and sobs like no one’s watching. I can’t look away.
CHAPTER 16
In Tolerone, I never wake up to a bird chirp or a rooster crow. I have not awakened to the gentle lapping of waves against the sides of ships or to the scents of a baker baking bread or women making coffee, like I did in New Bedford. No, I awake to the clanks and rings of hammers. I awake to dynamite blowing away rough swaths of land. I awake to the scent of metal grinding against metal. For the past year, railroad owners have been tossing down and hammering train tracks across the West. Father used to say that trains would open up the West for settlement and exploration, and that interest in the West would destroy people’s interest in the sea.
I don’t like the trains.
I have never been on one. I have sat and watched the railroad workers dig up the earth, hammer the slats, pound down the rails, and connect Tolerone to the great cities of the East. I have watched the churning, whistling monster engines with their lines of freight cars scream across the barren land and screech into Tolerone. I have waved to the engineers, the coal shovelers, the porters, the tramps riding on the top, and the passengers inside the passenger cars. I have even skipped down the tracks and practiced my balance on the rails. But the truth is, I am afraid of trains.
When we moved here, Father brought us by horse and wagon, and he paid two of his most trusted mates from his days aboard the Vivienne to bring his things in a separate wagon. But today, if Eustace and I want out of Tolerone in a hurry and without detection, there’s only one option. We don’t have tickets, and we can’t go into town because Captain Greeney might see us. Or maybe by now the Jessups are thinking they should lock up Eustace until the Millers of Missouri get here to claim him.
So we must stow away aboard the Western Railroad. We are about to jump a train, like bandits. Doing such a thing doesn’t feel like a very scientific approach to traveling, but I guess I’ll just have to make do with the circumstances provided.
I don a pair of Father’s pants, his suspenders, and his old coat. Everyone knows you can’t jump a train in a dress. I pack a satchel with an extra set of clothes, a purse full of coins (earned from selling a couple of hogs) that Priss makes me take, and some food for the first few days. After that, Eustace and I are going to have to figure out how to get food on our own.
That, too, seems impossible right now. It also makes me realize how dependable Priss has been and how much like a mother she really is. I can’t remember the last time I worried about what I was going to eat. I never had to. For his part, Eustace isn’t worried at all about finding food. He says his ma has had him out foraging for food since he was in diapers. I decide to count on him. If I’m going to trust him about hopping on a train, I may as well trust him about eating acorns, mushrooms, and dandelion leaves.
I pick up my satchel, and I carefully place the Medicine Head’s crate inside. When I come downstairs, I see Eustace waiting for me with nothing but Fob.
“Aren’t you going to pack anything?” I ask.
“I don’t need anything,” he says. Fob whimpers. “Except my dog.”
I look at Fob, and he tilts his head at me and makes a soft moan, almost as if he knows he’s going on an adventure and is scared.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Fob. But I don’t want that timid, crooked-walking canine to mess up this journey. “I don’t want this cowardly dog holding us back,” I say. “What’s he good for?”
Eustace grimaces and leans down to cover Fob’s ears. “Don’t talk about my dog that way,” he says.
One thing about Eustace is that he’s real sensitive about his dog. I look at Fob again. “Well,” I say, “I guess maybe he’d make a good pillow.” I nod to Eustace to show him it’s all right with me if Fob comes along. “For on the train, I mean,” I add.
I kiss Mother good-bye and hug Priss tight. I can tell we understand each other.
“Be careful,” she says. Her voice is quivering now. She’s trying to be strong and brave.
“I will,” I say. “Don’t get married off to the first boy who shows an interest before I get back here to give my blessing.”
Priss smiles. I hear Ruby guffaw and mumble something about not letting any no-good boy around. I feel better knowing she’s here to help. Then I really look at Ruby hard. I feel sad for her and for Eustace because I wonder if she’ll ever see him again. This moment might be it. Whereas I might be gone a year, Eustace might be gone forever.
Priss seems to read my mind. She goes to Ruby and holds her hand. “And, Eustace, don’t you worry about your ma.” She pats Ruby’s hand. “We’ll love her and protect her with our lives.”
Everyone looks at Eustace. He nods, but he doesn’t speak. I don’t think he can. I know that feeling. The one where it feels like a big hot rock is stuck in your neck. I say something to stop everyone from staring at him so he doesn’t have to worry about the whole world seeing him get teary and get embarrassed about it.
Then Eustace goes to his ma and wraps his arms around her tightly. He shows no shame over his indulgent embrace, and I wonder why our family isn’t always affectionate like theirs. Ruby lifts him up and hugs him, then holds his hand in her hands. She says “I love you, son” over and over. She says, “I love you so much I have to let you go and have yourself a life.” She say
s, “I did my best, and I hope you remember that.” He promises he will. He says he loves her, too, and that he’s going to see the world and make a big life for himself. And then Eustace, Fob, and I are out the door of my Kansas home and into the blackest and hottest night I can remember on the plains.
Immediately, the Medicine Head begins whispering to me.
“You don’t hear that, huh?” I ask Eustace.
“I hear nothing but dry grass and gravel,” he responds. “But I get worried every time you ask me that when you’re carrying that thing. I can’t wait to get rid of it.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way. The air is hot. Sweltering. The Medicine Head howls like a wolf.
Eustace and I wait in the dark a mile or so outside of town. Fob horses around behind us. Sporadic fires still burn in Tolerone, and many of the buildings are reduced to blackened, skeletal frames, but the trains are running. We’re waiting on the ten-thirty p.m., the train that usually brings in lumber, then takes out the wheat, the cattle, and the mail of the people here.
“When it gets here,” says Eustace, “it should still be moving slow enough to hop.” Fob whines like he doesn’t believe it. Eustace pats him. “Don’t worry, boy.”
“You toss on Fob, hop on yourself, and I’ll hand you the Medicine Head,” I say. “Then I’ll hop on, too.”
“That’s the plan,” says Eustace. He rubs his palms on his trouser legs.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” he says. But we can hear the warning whistles, which means the train’s about to leave the station.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “I hope Mother will be all right without me.”
“Priss’ll watch her.”
Then we hear the train’s workings lurch into movement and the telltale chug-chug coming closer. But there’s something else, too.
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