Winterking (1987)

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Winterking (1987) Page 5

by Paul Hazel


  into the seat beside Houseman,

  The Duke shook his head. He would see Houseman

  fired. He could do that much. It’s a different world, the Duke

  thought sadly. Nothing will make it the same. But all at once

  he felt that he had got it wrong.

  He cocked his head with a slightly puzzled air.

  The pale light fell on Joseph’s dark face.

  It hadn’t even occured to the Duke to confuse the matter

  with family resemblance. He had looked and he knew. In that

  he had not been mistaken. His Grace was nearly invisible in

  the darkness but he stepped deeper into the shadow. I must

  be getting old, he thought. And yet, he was almost smiling as

  he saw the two young men in the window, William with

  Joseph’s face, Houseman with a face that once might have

  been his own.

  How then is the world different, the Duke wondered, if

  the years are nothing and there is no time?

  5.

  At first the train moved slowly, crawling past docks and

  shipyards. Twenty minutes from Water Street Station

  Wykeham could still see the outer reaches of New Awanux,

  the slums gone, but the buildings no less slovenly. For a time

  the tracks left the river, and the train, now rocking gently,

  clattered past derelict houses. It depressed him to think of the

  men who must live there, men he imagined who rose early,

  starting out along the edges of the roads in darkness to walk

  to the mills at the city’s heart. The great trains sped by them

  but there was never enough for the fare.

  His thoughts made him restless and he was pleased

  when at last the river swung back into view. Far out in the

  channel he saw by the lamps hung from their cabins the small

  black shapes of trawlermen returning late from the bay. He

  found as always a sort of reassurance in the fact that there were

  yet some men who steered their own lives. They would ride

  down into the bay again in the morning, just as fishermen had

  done for thousands of years and would do for thousands more.

  The thought comforted him. Perhaps they were not

  entirely free, for the sea bound them, but they were as free

  as men needed to be. He understood such men for he had

  spent the greatest part of his life in crossing the oceans.

  Helped by the memory, he stared once more into the

  dark. Because he was thinking, he did not hear at first the

  words of the man sitting next to him.

  “Barnum,” Houseman repeated, “Phineas T. Barnum, to

  set it out whole.”

  Wykeham looked perplexed.

  Houseman allowed himself the satisfaction of a grin.

  Even by his own harsh standards he had to admit, given the

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  The River

  3 3

  little time there had been to manage things, he had performed

  a miracle. But now that he had secured Wykeham’s notice,

  Houseman waited. There was a great deal to be discovered

  about Wykeham and it was best to be careful.

  Wykeham recognized that look. The first months with a

  new man were always dangerous. At the start, as good a man

  as His Grace had made foolish errors. His strength was that

  he learned from them. Toward the end, in some few matters

  Wykeham had even begun to trust his judgment, although it

  was backed by less experience, as much as his own.

  But in this the Duke had failed. Already the prohibition

  had been violated.

  He will be disappointed, Wykeham thought, that his last

  decision did not do him credit. Still, Wykeham hoped for the

  best. He even smiled, lightly, because Houseman, who had

  smiled once, was now trying very hard not to.

  “Barnum?” he asked.

  “Surely you’ve heard of him— the man with the circuses,”

  Houseman answered. “I rented the stable car from his agent

  in Bridgeport. Where else was I to find one large enough?”

  Then despite the best of his intentions he broke into a grin.

  “They use it, he told me, for shipping elephants.”

  Wykeham turned. “Painted red I would gather.”

  Houseman nodded. “With large yellow letters.” Hearing

  himself, his smile vanished. “ ‘The Greatest Show on Earth,’ ”

  he said softly. He could imagine what Wykeham was thinking. “But— ” he began.

  “But?”

  “It’s dark,” Houseman filled in quietly. “We loaded in

  the dark as well. It was after midnight, yesterday. Or this

  morning really. Too dark to see the hand in front of your face.

  The car went right into the barn. The tracks were there just

  as you said they would be. Apparently had been for years

  although you coidd see they served no purpose. Hadn’t any,

  until that is— ”

  Wykeham watched the sudden change in his expression.

  At least he isn’t stupid, Wykeham thought, not very much

  relieved.

  Houseman was no longer quite looking at him. “Well,

  whatever it is went in by itself and no one’s the wiser. I

  closed the doors myself.” He managed to turn toward

  Wykeham. “I was there,” he said without apology. “Someone

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  W IN TER IN G

  responsible had to be. And I saw to it,” He waited. “But even

  I couldn’t tell you what was in there.” He waited again. “In

  any event,” he said, “now it’s done. And it will be with you in

  Devon.”

  “It’s a horse,” Wykeham said although the question had

  not been asked directly. “A rather peculiar and rather unusually

  large horse,” he said in answer to the unasked question that

  followed.

  Houseman kept his hands in his lap and nodded.

  “You realize,” Wykeham said without a trace of awkwardness, “that you should not have come.”

  “His Grace said,” Houseman started but he saw that led

  nowhere. “There are things that will need doing at the other

  end. Arrangements. . . ”

  “Which I shall see to. Or others will. I am not without

  resources. Letters were written. I already have at Greenchurch,

  I believe, several dozen men in my employ. New men, I will

  grant you. Like yourself, untested— ”

  Houseman looked pale.

  “Of course, I recognize you acted out of the best of

  intentions,” Wykeham added. “And I have always appreciated

  a certain zeal. I expect that His Grace saw that in you.

  Perhaps, when you return, you will have another talk with

  him. I shall write you. You may trust to that. But for the time

  being— ”

  Houseman knew enough to stand.

  “Make certain you look up His Grace,” Wykeham said

  by way of good-bye.

  The evil rumblings in Houseman’s stomach told him all

  too clearly he was going to be ill. He lurched down the aisle

  heading for the next car, only stopping a moment outside the

  lavatory. He rattled the handle desperately but the door was

  locked.

  There are pieces which belong in the puzzle, their

  curious irregularity perfectly matching the oddly shaped hole

  in the left corner, their unexpected shading the exact color of />
  sunlight on dark foliage, pieces which nevertheless are set

  aside at the outset and only rediscovered after searching and

  anguish. So Nora, who had begun looking for portents in

  dreams, had taken the ten-pound note from the drawer in

  The l^ver

  35

  anticipation of nothing, simply because she felt she had

  earned it.

  She had never intended to follow him. When the letter

  had come, she had set out merely to discover whether the

  ticket was real and not a joke in cranky repayment for having

  asked him to pay once more for what had already been paid

  for. For if in fact their meeting had been destined, she had

  not recognized the first stirrings of the thought until, fleeing

  from the vulgar insinuations of the ticket agent, she had come

  upon the young man once again at the station. Without

  looking I have seen him twice, she had thought, as though

  twice was lucky and a sign. And so, even as near as she was to

  the beginning, she had missed the start. She had taken the

  ten-pound note not knowing she would or that she would

  have need of it, but remembering perhaps that it was more

  than she had ever taken into the streets of Bodp. It was not

  until she had mounted the steps of the train that she realized

  that while ten pounds would more than cover the fare, it

  would leave her less for all the uncertainty that must surely

  come after.

  The first time the conductor came through he collected

  no tickets. Nora stared out the window waiting to be certain

  he had gone, keeping her face turned so he would not

  remember it. But it was that face, before her journey had

  ever started, that Harwood had seen from the platform and

  would remember though the year was nearly over when he

  next saw her, running across the snow-covered lawn, down

  from the great house at Greenchurch, though her hair would

  then be golden.

  Before the conductor returned she had locked herself in

  the lavatory. Later, someone had stood outside and rattled the

  handle frantically. She could hear little gulping sounds. But

  eventually whoever it was had gone away.

  The train made its first stop at Stratford, which the

  Indians had called Cupheag, and the next at Metichanwun,

  whose name, for no more reason than they had rejected the

  other, the English had kept. They were small towns and few

  passengers either left the train or joined it. The conductor

  hadn’t bothered to come through punching tickets until just

  before Bristol. Four miles out, when the train came onto the

  flats by the river, one could sometimes see the tall smoke­

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  WINTERKING

  stacks of the factories. But the furnaces no longer burned at

  night. They made clocks in Bristol and the demand for clocks

  had diminished. Even at this hour there would be men on

  the platform waiting to board the train, workmen with their

  families, their few belongings packed. From up the river,

  from Devon, there had come rumors of work.

  The conductor paused before Wykeham and asked for his

  ticket.

  "You’re the gentleman with the circus car,” the conductor said, not quite making it a question for he had seen how the young man was dressed and now that he had been

  through the cars he had found no one else who looked likely

  to have been able to afford the expense.

  Wykeham turned slightly.

  "You wouldn’t mind saying what it is you have in there,”

  the conductor said carefully, not certain as yet whether the

  young man was being rude or whether he had been dozing.

  The conductor rested his arm on the back of the seat.

  “You’re too young a fella to remember perhaps,” he said.

  “But the circuses used to come through here quite often.

  Years back, when times were better. And, of course, they

  would stop at Bristol. Then on up the line to Ohomawauke.

  Queer name, Ohomawauke— Indian.” He seemed to think of

  something else. “But then the circuses brought queer folk

  too. You’re not, by the way— I mean you’re not dressed

  like. . . ”

  Wykeham looked disinterested. “Horses,” he said matter-

  of-factly.

  “Rather a large car for horses,” the conductor said testily,

  beginning to take offense.

  “Large horses,” Wykeham answered.

  “The windows all boarded up.”

  “— And blind.”

  The conductor took Wykeham’s ticket, punched several

  small holes in it, and, muttering, went hurriedly on. He had

  no intention of coming back to speak to the young man.

  Certainly he would not have except for the second young man

  in the car after who when he tried to wake him he found was

  dead. There was no need to go through his pockets. Unfolded

  in his lap was the rental agreement for the circus car. There

  were three names on the paper, one clearly that of the

  business agent for the circus and two others.

  The River

  3 7

  *

  *

  *

  The train was held in Bristol for a little under an hour.

  Two policemen, who arrived at once, stared defiantly at the

  corpse rather as if it deserved most of the blame, turned its

  head, felt for a pulse and asked questions of the nearest

  passengers. A woman said that she had thought the man was

  drunk. She said:

  “He kept on making little coughing noises. And mumbling. Not that it made sense, you understand. I could tell he wasn’t right.” She shook her head with knowing sadness. “But

  don’t his eyes look odd,” she said.

  The policemen were not distracted.

  “Do you remember the words exactly?” the sergeant

  asked.

  “Just foolishness.”

  The sergeant tugged at his belt importantly. “We shall be

  the judge of that,” he told her.

  “The world’s coming apart,” the woman answered softly.

  She was a small tense woman. She seemed about to blubber.

  The sergeant stood in front of the corpse so she would

  not have to stare at it. “Yes,” he said in a calming tone, not

  looking at her but at the other policeman. "These things can

  be difficult. If you would just— ”

  “No!” the woman said with a sudden fierceness. “It’s

  what the poor man said. The world's coming apart, coming

  apart. Over and over.”

  It was the doctor who asked if anyone knew the man. So

  it was not until then that the conductor, who had already

  thought of it but who had not been asked, went into the other

  car and came back with Wykeham. A shadow of stern regret

  passed over his features.

  “This is Mr. Houseman,” the conductor said, guessing

  from the names he had read on the paper and introducing the

  young man to the policemen.

  The policemen shook hands with Wykeham. They had

  not thought of that before either. They had sons who were

  older, but somehow, looking at the young man, you did.

  “That, I am sorry to say, is Houseman,” Wykeham

  corrected th
em. Something caught the corner of his eye.

  Wykeham stopped, fished under the seat and, retrieving a

  piece of paper, presented it to the sergeant. “We were

  traveling together from New Awanux,” he told them. “He

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  WINTERKING

  was only newly in my employ.” Wykeham looked down at the

  collar buttoned firmly around the throat of the dead man. A

  fragment of straw clung to the starched white cloth. He

  brushed it off. “Understandably we rode separately.” Only his

  eyes betrayed his grief. “I wish he had told me he was ill,” he

  said.

  The passengers kept edging nearer and had to be shooed

  away. The doctor had closed the dead man’s shirt and was

  wiping his fingers on his handkerchief. Death, he told them,

  was the result of heart failure or shock, or perhaps both.

  Unusual in a young man but it happened.

  There was not much else to be done. The body was

  taken off. Shortly afterward Wykeham himself left the train to

  telegraph the bank. He left instructions for someone to travel

  out on the next train and ride back with the body. At the

  funeral there would be a lavish array of flowers and a card

  signed in his own hand. Houseman, it would be discovered,

  to the surprise of his family, had purchased a generous

  insurance policy for which his parents, because there had

  been no wife, were beneficiaries. Death always leaves loose

  ends. But those which could be tidied up would be.

  In something short of an hour the new passengers were

  permitted onto the train. In the confusion Nora came out of

  the lavatory. The window in the cubicle had been painted

  over and she had sat in the little space, her knees drawn up,

  unable to look out. Over the course of the journey persons

  unknown had banged at the door and wrenched the handle.

  To make matters worse she had begun to hear whispers about

  policemen. She had been frightened and she was now more

  than willing to pay the fare from wherever she now was. But

  though she sat in the open, no one thought to ask for it.

  II.

  The Hill and the

  Tower

  1

  .

  The error in the maps of that time seemed to arise both

  from the limitations in the knowledge of the world of the

 

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