The Young City: The Unwritten Books

by James Bow

  “Tell it to the judge, son,” said the officer.

  “He’s right. Let him go,” said a woman’s firm voice.

  Faith stood in front of them, her dress stained and torn, her hands on her hips. The officer let go of Peter and tipped his hat to her before turning and darting back into the crowd.

  “I see you’ve brought the cavalry,” said Peter, trying to straighten his jacket.

  Faith tilted her head at him. “No, I brought the police.” She stopped short at the sight of his wrists and snatched them up. “Your hands! They’re hurt!”

  Peter tried to shrug. “They’ll heal.”

  “Not without proper care!”

  “Never mind that now.” He snatched his hands away. “Where’s Edmund? Where’s Rosemary?”

  Faith scanned the crowd, then perked up. “Edmund!” She ran to where another officer was hauling Edmund away. “Officer, wait! That’s my brother!”

  She slipped, catching herself on a fallen crate. She stood staring at the contents, which had burst out and spilled over the floor. The brown puddle reeked of alcohol. She rounded on her brother. “Edmund!”

  He looked up, flinched, and looked beseechingly at the officer, but Faith grabbed his arm. “Edmund! Do you mean to tell me that you took up with ... with ... bootleggers and rum-runners?” She balled her fist.

  Edmund cringed. “Faith, I ... I —”

  “You stupid, stupid, stupid man!” She thumped his chest and shoulders. “How could you? How could ... You could have been killed!” And she broke down, sobbing. Edmund caught her, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

  Peter approached, but kept a respectful distance. Then an officer touched his arm. “Since Miss Watson is occupied, I’ll tell you. We have control of this place. There’s plenty of evidence and plenty of people willing to point the finger at Mr. Birge. Tell Miss Watson she’s earned a substantial reward for breaking this smuggling operation.”

  “Have you found Aldous Birge?” asked Peter.

  “Peter!” Rosemary’s shout cut through the hubbub. Peter snapped up and stared in horror at Rosemary being dragged back toward the river port by Aldous, a gun to her throat.

  “If anybody follows me,” Aldous bellowed. “I will shoot this young lady.”

  She clawed at the arm around her neck. “Don’t just stand there, you idiots! Arrest him!”

  The crowd of boys and police officers parted as Aldous dragged Rosemary to the port doors.

  Peter ran through the crowd after them.

  Aldous dragged Rosemary across the threshold and slammed the port doors shut. As he bolted them, Rosemary pulled free.

  The port walls dripped and the floor was strewn with splinters. The river was crusted with the remains of boats and jetties. Everything sparkled in the rising sunlight.

  Rosemary backed away as Aldous rounded on her.

  “Do you honestly think that’s going to hold them for long?” she snapped. With one eye, she scanned the floor for large planks — anything that could be used as a weapon. “Do you honestly think you’re going to get away?”

  “I have an escape route.” Aldous nodded at the river tunnel behind him. “I have money stored away. And, for now, I have you.” He waved to the water with his gun. “Find me a boat and get aboard.”

  Rosemary coughed and took a deep breath. “I won’t be your hostage.”

  Aldous aimed his gun at her. “You will do as I say.”

  She coughed again, and held her chest. “Or you’ll what? Shoot me with Edmund’s barbecue lighter?”

  Aldous lowered the gun. He squeezed the trigger as it hit his side. The barrel cracked and flashed. “I don’t need a weapon to kill you.” He started forward, his fingers flexing the trigger. Edmund’s invention sparked.

  Rosemary suddenly felt faint. She stepped back and swooned. She could hardly take a breath. The air smelled so bad ...

  Then she heard the hiss over the slosh of water, the smack of wood, and the crackle of Edmund’s invention. She looked up.

  All the gaslights were out, flames snuffed by the wall of water, but gas was spewing into the underground port; it had been spewing for several minutes, now. Lighter sparking and flashing, Aldous was striding toward her, heading straight beneath one of the jets.

  Rosemary leapt into the wood-strewn water.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NO FUTURE

  Peter had just cleared the crowd and was running for the port doors when the explosion knocked him off his feet. He scrambled up and stared at the roaring flames. “Rosemary!”

  Edmund caught him before he could run into the fire. “You cannot go in there! ’Tis an inferno!”

  The crates nearest the port doors caught. Flames licked up the walls to the rafters.

  “The alcohol!” the lead officer shouted. “This place will catch in seconds! Out! Everybody out!”

  Peter struggled and beat at Edmund’s restraining arms. “Rosemary!”

  “Faith!” cried Edmund. “Help me!”

  Faith grabbed Peter’s arm. “Peter, please. There’s nothing you can do!”

  Yelling, Peter struck forward. Edmund and Faith wrapped their arms around him and dragged him into the crowds streaming out of the building.

  Rosemary sank into the murk as the air above her turned a brilliant orange-red. The explosion shook the water and echoed in her chest. She looked up at a fiery glow as the air ran out and her lungs began to ache. Then she knew she had to surface.

  The air above was a mass of flames, licking around the floating wood. The water warmed by the second.

  She pushed herself upward, but something tugged at her dress, pulling her down. She looked, but her legs were lost in the murk. She struggled to rise higher, but only drifted sideways. Bubbles of panic seeped from her lips.

  Then she rose as though pushed from below, directly toward a black square in the yellow-orange sky. She burst into air and banged her head on wood.

  She was beneath an upturned gondola. She could feel the scorching heat radiate off the wood. The boat itself was on fire, but she was shielded. She could take her breath. She could plan her next move. She sucked in air. She dove.

  The invisible hands of the current grabbed her again, pulling her under. She brushed submerged posts, slipped over a garbage-strewn floor, until the sky above her turned from fiery orange to blue. The current released her and she shot up at the surface.

  She burst out into the cold air, gasping. Lake Ontario clamped onto her like an icy hand. There was a dock five feet from her, and she struggled toward it, almost sinking before she managed to grab a ladder’s rung. Then she hauled herself out of the water and lay gasping on the pier while a circle of port workers stared down at her.

  Edmund and Faith dragged Peter screaming from the warehouse and onto the brick-paved street. Bells were ringing throughout the neighbourhood. The police cordoned off the road and held the crowds back as water tanks pulled by horses trundled into view, even as black smoke chimneyed into the sky.

  Peter beat back blindly. “Let me go! She’s still in there!” A stray punch knocked Edmund aside.

  Faith grabbed him around the chest. “You listen to me!” Her breath fogged on his cheek. “Rosemary will not thank you for reckless heroics, so get a hold of yourself!”

  He stuttered to a halt, then sank down to the curb. He hung his head and began to cry.

  Faith squeezed his shoulders. “I am sorry, Peter.” Her voice shook. “I’m so sorry.”

  Edmund crouched by Peter’s side. He patted Peter’s shoulder awkwardly. “I’m sorry too, son.”

  “She’s all right,” whispered Tom Proctor’s voice into Peter’s ear.

  Peter blinked. “What?”

  “Peter?” They looked up. Wrapped in blankets and shivering, Rosemary stood behind them.

  “Rosemary!” Peter turned so fast, Faith was sent staggering. He clamped his arms around Rosemary in a spray of water and kissed her fervently on the lips.

  After a moment,
she gasped into his ear. “I ... can’t ... breathe!”

  “Sorry.” Peter loosed his grip, but still held her. “I love you!”

  “I love you, too!”

  “You could really use a bath.”

  “We all could.”

  Faith sidled in and hugged Rosemary. “You made it!”

  “Thanks to you,” said Rosemary. “How did you get out of the sewers?”

  “Mr. Proctor helped me,” said Faith. “The foreman at Peter’s work site.” She peered around. “Where is Mr. Proctor? I thought he was here. There is something odd about him.”

  Rosemary noticed Edmund standing awkwardly away and reached for him. He accepted her hand, then grunted as Rosemary embraced him. “Thank you for rescuing us.”

  “But I —,” he stammered.

  “You rescued us,” said Rosemary. “That’s what’s important.”

  “How did you get out of there?” asked Faith.

  “I jumped into the river before Aldous blew himself up,” said Rosemary. “It ...,” she faltered, uncertain. “It guided me to safety, right out to the lake.”

  “The current guided you, you mean?” asked Peter.

  “No.” She frowned at him. “The river.”

  A police officer approached and called Faith over. After he spoke with her, she came back. “They are finished here. They will take our statements later, but they have offered to drive us home.”

  “Yes,” Rosemary breathed. “Let’s go home.”

  “I will run each of us a bath,” said Faith. “Then a long sleep, I think.”

  Policemen guided them toward a waiting Hansom cab as the crowds dispersed, and Aldous’s warehouse smouldered.

  But Peter stopped short. He heard Tom’s voice call to him. He turned.

  In the dimness of an alleyway, Tom Proctor stood, smiling. Though he was facing the rising sun, he was backlit by a phosphorous blue glow, like river gas.

  Tom raised his hand in farewell.

  The sun slipped out from a cloud. Peter blinked, and Tom was gone.

  The next day, Peter awoke with Rosemary snuggled beside him, snoring. They’d spent part of yesterday resting and recovering, but something gnawed at the back of Peter’s mind: the raging river and the strange blue glow. He pieced together all of the elements and the strange sense of foreboding that had stayed with him since Tom raised his hand in farewell.

  Then it clicked. He knew what he had to do.

  He slipped out of bed, dressed quickly, and tiptoed out of the house. He strode through the waking streets. Wisps of snow curled around his feet.

  At the construction site, the hoarding was half dismantled. Where the river had been was just a stretch of new ground. A worker shovelled in the last heap of dirt and tamped it down.

  Peter walked down to the work site. A tall, thin young man in work clothes saw him and ambled up. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Peter. Peter McAllister?”

  The young man brightened. “Ah, McAllister! I’m Albert Smith. I have your final pay and a letter of commendation from Mr. Proctor in the office.”

  Peter stared at him. “Letter of commendation? For me?”

  “Yes,” said Albert. “He spoke very highly of you.”

  “Where is he?”

  Albert shrugged. “Retired, I guess. Didn’t really elaborate in his notice. Some of the boys say he went to live with his son in Kingston.”

  “Or maybe he headed north,” muttered Peter. “Maybe,” said Albert. “He was an odd fellow; he was a renowned foreman, but he tended to stick close to the university. Some say he loved the scenery more than the work. When it came to covering the river, he demanded the job. If it was to be done, it would be him that would do it, I guess. He loved the campus. It’ll be strange not to have him around. Just like it will be strange not to have the old creek around.”

  “Yeah,” said Peter, staring at the line of tamped-down earth that ran serpentine along the ground where the Taddle used to be.

  “You know,” said Albert, “a recommendation from Mr. Proctor carries some weight, particularly with me. When next year’s jobs start, perhaps you’ll join my crew?”

  Peter looked up and nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

  Albert gave him a firm look. “My next job will be a new building at the corner of College and Spadina. The university needs the space. Show up in the spring and you’ve got work, okay?”

  Peter smiled at him. “Okay.”

  Peter strode back from the construction site, his fingers twitching. What was he going to tell Rosemary?

  He found Rosemary dressed, sitting at the foot of their bed, pulling on her boots. She smiled when she saw him. “Faith tells me that the boots are supposed to be among the first things you put on. I never remember that.”

  “Rosemary ....” His throat went dry. He knelt before her and took her hand as she stared down at him. “I’ve got bad news.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He took a deep breath. “They’ve finished work at the construction site. Taddle Creek has been completely buried.”

  She stared at him.

  “Something tells me we can’t go home anymore.”

  She patted his hand. “I know.”

  “You do?”

  She took a deep breath. “When Faith and I were trapped in the sewers, we found another portal downstream. It took us back to the present. I got to call my mom.”

  Peter jerked back. “You what?”

  “It was November. We’d been missing three months,” she continued. “The portal through Theo’s floor closed almost the minute after we fell through it. They spent weeks looking for us. I think the portal’s been flowing downstream with the river. And when that weird thing happened with the water coming into the port? It felt like a door being closed.”

  Peter gaped at her. “Rosemary, you made it back home? You talked to your mother?”

  She nodded.

  “What on Earth possessed you to come back here?”

  She looked at him. A corner of her mouth quirked up.

  Peter smiled. “Oh.”

  They sat a long moment, staring at the floor, the ceiling, the bedspread. Then Peter looked up and caught Rosemary’s attention with a squeeze of her hands. “Rosemary ... Will ... Will you ... Will you marry me?”

  Rosemary stared silently for a long time. Then she said, “Yeah. Okay.”

  They embraced, and were quite late coming down for breakfast.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Rosemary noted, not for the first time, that without the privacy screens around the tub, their apartment looked much bigger. Snow drifted on the windowsill and the wood stove glowed.

  Peter stepped in behind her, holding a stack of four glasses. Faith followed with a glass pitcher of eggnog. Edmund slouched in behind. “Why are we having eggnog in your apartment?”

  “To thank you for acting as witnesses,” said Rosemary.

  “’Tis nothing,” said Edmund.

  “’Tis hardly nothing!” Faith slapped her brother’s arm. “It was an honour, and it was a beautiful ceremony.”

  Edmund rolled his eyes. “We could hardly have allowed them to continue to live in sin.”

  Faith poured out glasses, which Peter passed to Edmund, then to Rosemary. “It was still an honour. And as they explained, Edmund ...,” she looked hard at her brother, “they were not living in sin.”

  “Much,” muttered Rosemary. She raised her glass. “We honour our hosts. To Faith and Edmund, great Samaritans both.”

  “To Mr. and Mrs. Watson-McAllister,” said Faith. “Good friends.”

  “To all of us,” said Peter. Glasses clinked.

  Then Rosemary picked up an envelope from the bed and held it out to Edmund. “And we’re here to give you your Christmas present. It’s a little early, but here you go.”

  Edmund stared at the envelope. His eyes narrowed at Faith and Peter’s grins. “What is it?”

  “Open it, foolish
brother, and see!” Faith snatched the envelope and pressed it into his hand.

  Setting his glass of eggnog aside, he ripped open the envelope, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers. He stared at the covering letter. “My invention! I’ve secured a patent! But how?”

  “That day you tossed your papers in the garbage?” said Rosemary. Edmund flushed. “I fished them out and finished them off for you. I thought, since you were no longer interested, I’d give them a try. I hope you don’t mind that I forged your signature.”

  Edmund stared at her over the patent papers.

  “I’ve done some legwork for you.” Rosemary tapped the back of the sheaf. “Seems Mr. Ballard knows someone by the name of Mr. Bell. He’s spoken enthusiastically about your find and he expects Mr. Bell will be writing soon, asking for a demonstration. He may ask to buy your patent. He’ll drive a hard bargain, but hold your ground. Trust me, he can afford to pay you handsomely.”

  Edmund’s mouth moved but no words came out. Finally he managed, “Rosemary — I don’t know what to say. What does this all mean?”

  “It means,” said Peter, “that if you play your cards right, you won’t have to be a pawnshop owner.”

  “‘Thank you’ should suffice,” Faith added.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” Edmund gabbled. He threw his arms around Rosemary, then let go, red-faced.

  Rosemary held on. “You’re welcome!”

  He pulled back, still blinking. “I must get things ready. A demonstration? It must be flawless!” Mumbling to himself, he darted from the room.

  “Merry Christmas!” Rosemary called after him.

  “He’ll be up all night,” said Faith. “He’ll be exhausted in the morning. Happy, but exhausted. I shall have to take care of him.”

  “Don’t forget your studies,” said Rosemary. “A new term begins in a couple of weeks.”

  “I won’t,” said Faith. “I had best turn in. Merry Christmas, both.” She gave each of them warm kisses on their cheeks. “And,” she added with a sly smile, “congratulations.” She slipped out the door.