The Boundless (2 page)

Her eyebrows lift haughtily. “It's rude to call someone a liar.”

“I didn't call you—” he begins.

A distant locomotive gives a blast, and Will stands eagerly. He sees the train, still far away, but it's coming from the wrong direction.

“That's not your father?” the girl asks.

Will shakes his head.

“Come see the circus tonight,” she says to him.

“How much is it?” He knows Mother is worried about money. She's been worried about money all their lives.

“Nothing for you,” she says. “Bring your parents, too. Just tell the man at the tent flap, ‘
Jeg inviterte
.'”

“That some secret circus code?” Will asks excitedly.

“It just means ‘I'm invited' in Norwegian.”

“You're Norwegian?”

“Half-Norwegian, half-French,” she tells him with a shrug.

It seems incredibly exotic to Will. “I'd like to come,” he says.

With another blast of its whistle, the train makes its slow approach. The station master stirs from his stool and steps out from the shack.

“Will you do the disappearing act?” Will asks the girl.

She grins. “Promise you'll come?”

“Yes, all right. Promise.”

He looks over at the train and sees it's not a freight. It's carrying only two cars, and they look fancy.

“Wonder who's on this one?” he says, and when he turns, the girl's gone. He looks all around and sees no trace of her. The locomotive pulls past him, alongside the platform. Surely she didn't bound in front of it! He smiles to himself. Maybe she really could do the disappearing trick. He realizes he doesn't even know her name—

And that she still has his sasquatch tooth! Frantically he pats his pocket to double-check. Empty. The train comes to a halt. The engineer and the brawny fireman drop down from the locomotive and holler instructions to the yard workers.

“She needs to be watered and fed, lads!”

Will runs along the platform to get around the train. Maybe he can catch up with her. From the passenger carriage a man suddenly steps down, and Will barrels right into him and goes sprawling. Before Will scrambles up, he catches a glimpse of gleaming shoes, still firmly planted on the platform.

“Sorry, sir!” he pants to the gentleman.

He's a stocky fellow—no wonder he didn't go over. He has a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. His hair doesn't start till halfway back on his square head. A solid stomach swells his expensive vest and coat. Will is surprised to see that his eyes don't flash with anger but with amusement.

“You're in quite a hurry, lad.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but . . . there's a girl. . . . She . . . took something. . . .”

“Ah. Stole your heart, did she?”

Will's face blazes. “No . . .” he mumbles, mortified. “My sasquatch tooth.”

“Really?” says the gentleman, intrigued. He bends and picks up Will's askew sketchbook. His eyebrows lift as he takes in the drawings.

Will just wants to disappear—with or without a puff of smoke; he's not picky. But he can't leave without his sketchbook. And he can't very well demand it back.

“Fine pictures,” the gentleman says. “I'm guessing someone in your family works the rails.”

Will forces himself to meet the gentleman's eye. “My father, sir. I'm waiting for him.”

The gentleman is starting to look familiar, though Will doesn't know why.

“Up in the mountains, is he? What's his name?”

“James Everett.”

The gentleman gives a gruff nod. “A fine man.”

Will thinks he must be joking. “You know him?”

“Of course. I make it a point to know my best workers. I'm the manager of the CPR. My name's Cornelius Van Horne.”

Van Horne thrusts his hand toward him. For a moment Will's paralyzed. Of course this man is familiar! Will's seen his portrait in the papers. His name has appeared in his father's letters. For the past five years Van Horne has overseen every detail of the railway's construction. He is general manager, engineer, visionary—slave driver, some call him, according to Will's dad. But Will's father has also told stories about how Van Horne has cut through virgin forest with a forty-pound pack on his back and forded a raging river. Will shakes his hand. The rail baron's grip is swift and powerful.

“What's your name?” Van Horne asks him.

“William Everett. Sir.”

“Been a while since you've seen your pa, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Tell you what, William Everett, why don't you come up with us. We're headed into the mountains ourselves.” His eyebrows rise, and his high forehead creases with sudden mischief. “You can surprise your father and come back with him before nightfall. And maybe find yourself another sasquatch tooth.”

Something shifts inside Will, like a door opening. Maybe it was meeting the circus girl, maybe it was the view of all these new mountains like a gateway to a new and dangerous world—but he feels like his whole life is about to be upended. His father's had so many adventures—maybe he'd be impressed if Will did something daring. Anyway, he hasn't seen his father in ages, and how could he pass up the chance to see him all the sooner?

“Is there time to go tell my mother?” Will asks.

As if in answer, a uniformed conductor leans out from the carriage and calls, “All aboard, sir!”

“Are you coming, William Everett?” says Van Horne. “It would make a good story, don't you think? And it's always good to have a story of your own.”

The rail baron turns and starts back to his carriage.

Will looks toward the boardinghouse, where his mother waits, then up at the mountains. The train whistle blows. He grits his teeth and inhales sharply. He looks over at the station master, who's watching him with curiosity.

“Will you please tell Lucy Everett I've gone to the camp to meet my father? She's at Mrs. Chester's rooming house!”

And it's done. He bounds toward the train and up the steps.

Inside the carriage he comes to an abrupt halt. Instantly he feels shabby and out of place. He's never been in a fancy parlor like this, or amongst such finely dressed gentlemen. They are all muttonchop whiskers and top hats and vests. They trail their own atmosphere of cigar smoke and brandy. And they are all looking at him.

“I see you've brought an urchin with you, Van Horne,” one of them says.

“Bite your tongue, Beddows,” says Van Horne sharply. “This is William Everett, the steel layer's son. He's coming up to meet his pa.”

Will notices one of the gentlemen open a window. He can't imagine he smells worse than all the cigar smoke. Still, he wishes he could fade into the velvet wallpaper.

But Van Horne puts a large hand on his shoulder and begins introductions with a satirical grin. “William, this bearded fellow here is Mr. Donald Smith, the president of the CPR. And
this
bearded fellow is Walter Withers; and this
excessively
bearded gentleman is Sandford Fleming, another of our surveyors and engineers. . . .” And so it goes, Will taking in none of this, just nodding and trying to meet the eyes of these famous, wealthy gentlemen. His insides twist. “And this beard
less
man here is Mr. Dorian,” Mr. Van Horne finishes, indicating a tall man with curly black hair.

“How do you do, Will?” Unlike the other gentlemen, he approaches Will and shakes his hand. He has strikingly high cheekbones, a warm hue to his skin, and a dark, penetrating gaze.

“Good, thanks,” murmurs Will.

“Mr. Dorian here,” says the rail baron, “has taken a great liking to a painting of mine.”

Mr. Van Horne walks over to the parlor wall where an oil painting hangs, and he smiles at Will. “I saw your drawings, lad. What do you think? Is it a good piece?”

Will studies it. There's a house in winter, with several sleighs outside. A blacksmith tends to one of the horse's hooves.

“I like it,” he says.

Mr. Dorian tilts his head. “I'm offering a fine price.”

“The price is irrelevant,” Van Horne says, laughing. “I won't be parted from it. She's my pride and joy. Don't you have enough pretty baubles in that circus of yours?”

“Some baubles are prettier than others,” says Mr. Dorian. His voice is deep and carries the faintest hint of an accent.
Is it French?
Will wonders.

“Do you work for that circus near the station?” Will asks impulsively. Maybe he knows the girl and can tell him her name.

“Alas, no.”

“I heard they have a good wire walker,” Will says, wanting to sound knowledgeable.

“Is that so? Well, I'm always looking for new talent.”

To Will's relief the gentlemen all resume their conversations with one another. He retreats to the very back of the car and sits quietly. He watches and listens. He dares not even take out his sketchbook, in case that might be rude.

The man called Withers seems to be a photographer, because he and his assistant keep checking through several large cases holding a camera and all sorts of equipment.

The train shudders and surges higher into the mountains. Will hasn't seen a single sign of human habitation since Farewell. Often all he can see are the vast pines that grow along the track, but sometimes they thin and he catches a sunlit glimpse of a high bony crag, or a cataract of black water spilling over a cliff. Will jolts when the train steams across a wooden trestle and he peers down to the jagged, churning gorge, hundreds of feet below.

An attendant comes through and serves a luncheon of cold chicken cutlets, steamed vegetables, and boiled baby potatoes. Van Horne, after taking his meal, points the attendant back to Will, and the fellow grudgingly hands him a plate and napkin. Will sits for a while staring at the food, wondering how he's supposed to eat it, then realizes his cutlery is wrapped up in the thick napkin.

Copying how the gentlemen hold their forks and knives, Will tries to eat neatly. The food's very good—certainly better than the boiled something-or-other last night at Mrs. Chester's. Some sauce plops onto his vest. He tries to dab it off with his napkin but seems only to spread it, so he rubs it in as hard as he can until it disappears.

“I like to keep a sketchbook myself,” says Van Horne, sitting down near him. “What do you think of this, eh?”

In his hands he holds a beautifully bound volume. The paper is so thick and creamy, Will can't help stroking it. Across two pages are drawings of a machine so extraordinary that it takes him several seconds to figure out what he is looking at.

“Is it a locomotive?”

“Indeed.”

“It can't be so big, can it?”

“Mark my words, once she's built, she'll ride these tracks. Maybe you'll ride upon her.”

“Van Horne,” says Sandford Fleming, “you are hopeless at keeping secrets.”

“There's no need to keep this secret,” he replies, winking at Will. “I'm the only one who can build this train, and build it I will. And who knows, maybe one day someone like William here will drive it.”

“What will you call her, sir?”

“The Boundless.”

Laughter rumbles from a gentleman with an enormous white beard. “Building the track nearly bankrupted us ten times over—and the nation with it. I marvel at your appetite for risk.”

“It's a keen appetite I have, Smith,” Van Horne replies, “and without it we wouldn't have finished the railway.”

“Not to mention blind luck,” says Smith. “Now, who's up for a game of poker?”

The carriage suddenly darkens, and Will thinks they've entered a tunnel. But when he looks out the windows, he sees dense trees on both sides, so close that their branches scrape and snap against the carriage.

“Why haven't these blasted trees been cut back?” Van Horne demands angrily. “I told them last time I was up. It's not—”

There's a loud thump, and Will turns in time to see a dark shape climb swiftly past a window onto the roof. Heavy footsteps sound overhead.

“Gentlemen, we have an uninvited guest,” says Van Horne, drawing a pistol from his jacket.

“What is it?” Will asks, his throat tight. “Is it a—”

“Yes. Head down, keep away from the windows,” Van Horne tells him.

Will can only stare, petrified, as the other men draw guns. Sandford Fleming takes a rifle from a rack on the wall and loads it. The railway men walk smartly to the windows, slide the glass down, and lean far out. Squinting, they take aim and begin firing.

The reports are deafening, but Will can still hear the frantic pounding of footfalls overhead. The ceiling beams shudder under the thing's massive weight.

Withers the photographer is crouched on the floor, his terrified gaze ricocheting about. His assistant whimpers softly. Mr. Dorian is the only other man without a gun, and he stands calmly in the center of the room with an air of faint amusement on his face.

“Quickly, gentlemen!” cries Van Horne. “If he gets to the locomotive, he'll kill our engineer.”

They reload and redouble their efforts. Gun smoke stings Will's eyes. Still the footfalls pound against the roof, making their way steadily forward—then pause.

“Can't see him anywhere!” hollers one of the gentlemen.

Mr. Dorian takes the remaining rifle from the rack and walks calmly to the front of the carriage. He stands listening, the color high in his cheeks, and then fires a single shot through the ceiling.

There's a massive thump against the roof, then a scratching sound. Will whirls as a brown shape drops past the window. He hurries over and catches just a glimpse of a massive, furred creature crumpled alongside the tracks. He feels hot all through, and his heart's suddenly hammering. He sits down.

“Steadies the nerves,” Van Horne says, offering Will a small glass of brandy.