The Boundless (13 page)

A curtain pulls back, and from the berth emerges a body so huge that it seems impossible it could all fit inside. When the man stands, his head nearly hits the carriage roof, so he hunches forward, making his shoulders and chest seem even more massive. The giant points a carrot-thick finger at Will.

“He must be thrown off the train,” the giant says matter-of-factly. He tilts his head, as though pondering how best to fold Will up. “I cannot bear that stink. I will throw him off now.”

“No, wait! It's just sasquatch urine!” says Will as the giant steps toward him. “I can wash it off!”

“Mr. Beauprey has a very sensitive nose,” says the animal trainer without any apparent concern for Will's welfare.

“Let's just wait a moment, Mr. Beauprey, shall we?” says a compact fellow springing down from the upper berth. A handlebar mustache is the only hair on his bald head, and he is dressed like he's ready to do gymnastics. He winks at Will. “There'll be plenty of time to throw him off the train. But maybe first we should find out a little more about him.”

“I see no point in waiting,” Mr. Beauprey says, brow furrowed.

“Where'd you find him, Christian?” the small man asks the animal trainer.

“Holding hands with Goliath.” Christian nods at Will. “That sasquatch urine probably saved your life. He might've bit off your arm, but I think he was confused.”

Will nods weakly. “Lucky.”

More people are slipping out from their curtained berths, gawking at Will, as if he were a circus attraction for all to see.

“How'd you get into our cars?” the short man asks.

“I ran over top. Your elephant lifted me down.”

“Elfrieda,” says Christian fondly.

“You jumped cars at night?” Mr. Beauprey asks.

Will nods, and sees a slow spread of admiration across the giant's features.

“Says there's a man trying to kill him,” Christian says dubiously.

A wiry fellow in an undershirt rushes in from the rear of the car. “Brakeman coming,” he whispers urgently. “Seems angry.”

Christian frowns. “They're not supposed to come in here. What've you been up to?” Before Will can protest, Christian grabs his arm and pulls him forward. Hurriedly they cross to another car. This corridor here has no curtains, only doors. As they approach one of them, it opens before Christian can raise his knuckles. The dignified form of Mr. Dorian emerges, wrapped in a silk robe.

“Mr. Dorian!” Will exclaims with a rush of relief.

The ringmaster ignores him and says to Christian, “Bring him inside.”

Will is pushed roughly into the stateroom. Even compared to first class, it's impressive. Velvet drapery hangs from the windows. Resting on a thick Persian carpet are two armchairs, a small desk, and several crammed bookshelves. Mostly concealed behind a screen is a large four-poster bed. A tall steamer trunk stands upright in one corner. Mounted on the walls is a dizzying collection of oil paintings, and all sorts of Native handiwork: a pipe with a beaded stem, a decorated goose head, some kind of tool with a wickedly sharp triangular blade.

“Where's your bloody ringmaster?” shouts Brogan from the corridor. “Someone who isn't a freak!”

Will turns to Mr. Dorian in alarm. The ringmaster seems untroubled.

“You can see the mayor if you like,” the cavernous voice of Mr. Beauprey replies. “You address him as ‘Your Lordship.'”

There's a sober pause before Brogan replies: “Fine. You just get me to him.”

“Christian, go show our guest in, please,” says Mr. Dorian. Then he swings open the lid of the steamer trunk and nods for Will to step inside. Will does as he's told, and the lid swiftly closes and latches, leaving him in total darkness. He can, however, hear everything.

“You the man in charge?” demands Brogan.

“That would be me, sir. Mr. Dorian, at your service.” He speaks with a quiet elegance that carries a weight of authority. “I don't believe we've been properly introduced.”

“Name's Brinley. I'm head brakeman.”

So he
has
changed his name,
Will thinks from inside the trunk.

“There's a boy hopped the train. You seen him?”

From outside the door Mr. Beauprey bellows, “Is he addressing you as ‘Your Lordship'?”

“It's quite all right, Mr. Beauprey, thank you,” replies Mr. Dorian. “Now, Mr. Brinley, we've barely woken, but no, I have not seen any such youngster. I will, however, tell my people to keep an eye open.”

“You all look pretty awake to me,” Brogan says unpleasantly. “And I can smell him. I know he's around here somewhere.”

“With respect, sir,” says Mr. Dorian, “are you certain the odor does not originate from you?”

“Only 'cause he splashed me with it when I was trying to catch him!”

Mr. Dorian makes an understanding sound. “It is a powerful smell.”

“It is a very, very
bad
smell!” rumbles Mr. Beauprey from the corridor.

“Well,” says Brogan, “I'm sure you won't mind if I take a little look around.” It does not sound like a question.

“I must kindly ask you to leave our carriages,” Mr. Dorian tells him. “These are the private property of Zirkus Dante, and you have, alas, not been invited to enter.”

Brogan scoffs. “Don't take that tone with me. You're connected to the Boundless, and you need our engine and our brakemen, and you follow our rules, or there'll be hell to pay. If it turns out you've been harboring this hooligan, we'll shunt the whole lot of you at the next siding, and you can give your show to the mosquitoes.”

“I hardly think you have the authority to do such a thing,” Mr. Dorian replies calmly.

“You'd be surprised. And I don't take my orders from circus folk—especially half-breeds like you.”

“How perceptive you are,” Mr. Dorian says placidly. “I prefer the term ‘Métis,' however.”

Inside the trunk Will is amazed at the ringmaster's restraint. Having grown up in Winnipeg, Will is familiar with the Métis—the offspring of French settlers and Cree Indians—and the insults they endured, especially after their failed uprising.

Will hears Brogan moving about the carriage, shifting things. He's coming closer to the trunk, and laughs. “This would be a daft place for someone to hide, wouldn't it?”

Horrified, Will hears Mr. Dorian say, “Be my guest.”

Will nearly chokes. Involuntarily he takes a step back, but there is nothing to conceal him, no heavy furs, no garments at all. He hears the clasp open. Swiftly the lid swings wide, and Brogan stands before him with his busted nose, staring directly into his eyes. There is not two feet between them. Mutely Will stares back. Brogan's blue eyes dart about quickly; then his mouth compresses in sour frustration. Turning his back, he slams the lid shut.

Only now does Will's heart pound—with equal measure terror and wonder at his escape.

“If you're quite done now, Mr. Brinley,” comes Mr. Dorian's voice. “I'll have one of my men escort you out.”

“I don't need no escort. You remember what I said. We want that boy. The Mounties want to question him.”

“Intriguing,” says Mr. Dorian.

“For murder. You find him, you tell me or my men. We'll be keeping an eye on your cars, you can count on that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brinley. Mr. Beauprey, please show our uninvited guest to the nearest door.”

“Shall I throw him off the train?” Will hears the giant say.

“No, Mr. Beauprey, that won't be necessary.”

Will hears a heavy sigh of disappointment from the giant, then the sound of Brogan's retreating footsteps. The stateroom door closes. After a few more moments the lid to the trunk opens and Mr. Dorian smiles in at him.

“You can come out now, lad.”

“How?” Will asks, turning to look back inside the trunk. “Why didn't he see me?”

Mr. Dorian steps nimbly inside. “Close it,” he tells Will, who does so. From inside he says, “Now open it.”

Will opens the lid to behold an empty trunk. “Where are you?” he asks in awe.

“Reach out your hand.”

Will stretches his hand out into the emptiness, and gasps when he touches an invisible shoulder. Mr. Dorian steps into full view.

“It's a very simple trick. Mirrors spring into place when the lid opens, and show you a reflection of the side of the trunk. You think you're seeing the back. It's hardly foolproof—you need but reach inside—but people are easily fooled by their eyes.”

“Thank you, for hiding me.”

“You don't look like a murderer to me, young Mr. Everett. Nor did you when I first met you three years ago.”

“I didn't know if you'd remember me. Your Lordship,” Will adds hastily.

Mr. Dorian chuckles. “You needn't bother with that. And certainly I remember you. It was an eventful day. Especially for you, by all accounts.”

After the avalanche Will didn't see Mr. Dorian again. The company train made many trips back and forth between Farewell, carrying the injured out, bringing back supplies for the men waiting their turn for transportation off the mountain. It was two days before Will and his father got back to town. By then Maren and the Klack Bros. Circus was gone—and Will's life had changed forever.

“And now you've been accused of murder by this Mr. Brinley.”

“His real name's Brogan. He was up in the mountains too. He tried to steal the golden spike.”

“Good stories seem to have a habit of finding you, William.”

“I've never thought of it like that,” Will says. “I always thought . . . well, I was just there when they happened to other people.”

Mr. Dorian smiles. “Well, I'd like to hear this particular story from the beginning, but first—”

“I'm sure he'd like a bath,” says a voice behind Will.

He turns to see Maren standing in the doorway in a simple green dress. Without her makeup or vibrant clothing she looks younger, much more like the girl he met three years ago. He can't help smiling, like he's just found something important that's been lost a very long time.

“I was looking for you!” he blurts out. “In the Junction. I was really hoping . . .”

All the words fly out of his head, and his face reddens. Babbling like a little kid. He wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. He realizes how bad he must smell, and how generally shabby he looks. He glances down at his tattered socks, wondering how long she's been there.

“I guess I have a habit of just showing up,” she says.

“Did you know, William,” says Mr. Dorian, “that it's because of you that Maren is now part of our show?”

“Really?”

“On that train into the mountains, you told me how fine the Klacks' wire walker was. I made inquiries, and indeed you were right. And here we all are. No doubt you'd like the chance to bathe. Maren, can you please show him to the washroom? And on the way pick out some clean clothes for him in the wardrobe car—he'll need to launder his own.”

“I'd just like to apologize for the sasquatch urine,” Will says, and sees Maren bite back laughter.

“Come with me,” she says.

He hangs well back as she leads him down the corridor.

“It doesn't help, you know,” she says over her shoulder. “I can still smell you.”

“I can't smell it anymore,” Will admits.

“It's not so bad. After a day with the animals, Christian smells even worse.”

“You know him?” Will asks with a pang of jealousy.

“He's my brother.”

“Oh.” He falls silent a moment. Over the years he's often had conversations with her in his head. Now he struggles to find a place to start. She beats him to it.

“You never came to the circus,” she says.

It takes him a moment to understand what she means. “Oh, I really wanted to. But, well, there was an avalanche, and you were gone by the time I got back down.”

“You're all rich now.”

Will laughs. “I hardly
look
rich.”

She regards him carefully. “You talk differently too.”

“I suppose so. I don't use ‘ain't' as much. I miss ‘ain't.'”

“Are you still drawing?”

He smiles. “Yes.”

“Do you have any with you?”

“Just a sketchbook.”

“You'll show me later?” She seems touchingly excited.

“If you like. Have you crossed Niagara Falls yet?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. But one day, absolutely.”

“You've mastered the disappearing act.”

“Thank you. It went pretty well the other night, I thought.”

“Did Mr. Dorian hire you right away?”

“No. I stayed with the Klacks for another year almost. My whole family did. But then my pa had an accident and broke his leg in two places. The Klacks didn't want him like that, so we all left. It was a bad show anyway. I wrote to Mr. Dorian, and at first he said he wanted only a wire walker. But he agreed to take on my brothers if I signed a five-year contract.”

She leads him into another car, which is entirely filled with long racks of costumes and steamer trunks spilling over with gloves and scarves and bracelets. Skinny paths run through the rolling hills of fabric and color.

Maren casts a critical eye over him and then begins sifting through the piles.

“Here, these should fit.”

Will takes them. “These are . . . clown clothes.”

“Clown's assistant, actually.”

Just by looking at the denim overalls, Will can see that the legs are too short. The white shirt has puffy sleeves and ruffled cuffs.

“You'll look like a pirate,” she promises with mischief in her eyes. “You never wanted to be a pirate?”

Will doesn't tell her he used to dream about it all the time.

“How about that other, normal shirt, there?” he asks, pointing.