The Boundless

by Kenneth Oppel

  “Will!” his father calls again.

  More than anything Will wants to run after Maren and talk to her, but he reluctantly hurries back to his father.

  “The key,” he says to Will.

  Will fishes it out of his pocket and presses it into his father’s hand. “I wanted to ask the magician something,” he says.

  His father looks a bit surprised but then nods. “I’ll see you back in the stateroom.”

  Will’s on the move at once, squeezing his way between people and chairs. When he reaches the Terrace car, the crowd

  thins, but then thickens again near the dining car. She can’t be too much farther ahead. Past the kitchens a child is sprawled on the floor, having a temper tantrum as his weary mother cajoles him to stand. Will jumps over him. He spots a steward.

  “The circus man and his assistant?” he asks. “Did you see them?”

  “Just a few moments ago.”

  Will jogs through the hurtling train. He reaches the end of another carriage and opens the door to a gust of startlingly chilly night air. A brakeman in coveralls stands at the corner of the small platform, the tip of his cigarette flaring orange. He nods curtly at Will.

  Through the next door—and he’s suddenly in a garden, as warm as a hothouse. Tall plants rise all around him. Birds shriek from the high glass ceiling. It smells like summer. Fairy lanterns light a paved path. He rushes past a burbling fountain.

  Will barrels on through the pungent fug of a cigar lounge. In the next car he slows down to cross the slippery deck of the swimming pool. The water flashes with color, and, startled, he looks down to see all manner of exotic fish darting about. Peering harder, he realizes they’re contained in a shallow aquarium along the pool’s bottom.

  He keeps going, past a small cinema and the smell of roasted almonds and popcorn. How can Maren and Mr. Dorian have gotten so far ahead? The train is endless, juddering, shuddering, steaming along its steel road. He smells soap and bleach as he passes a laundry.

  Damp with sweat, he’s brought up short by a formidable door that says: TO SECOND-CLASS ACCOMMODATION. Eagerly he grasps the brass handle, but it won’t turn. He tries again, looks about for a catch. A crisply dressed steward appears from a vestibule, pen in hand.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’d like to go through, please,” Will says.

  “It’s second class through there, sir.”

  “Yes. There’s someone I want to talk to.”

  The steward tries to smile patiently. “Do you have a second-class ticket, sir?”

  “No.”

  As if he’s trying to explain something to a small child, the steward says, “Then you can’t enter the second-class carriages. The doors do stay locked. It’s more comfortable for everyone that way.”

  Will sees the ring of keys clipped to the steward’s belt. “The circus man went through, didn’t he?”

  “Ah yes, he did, sir. But that was by special arrangement.”

  “I have something I need to ask him.”

  The attendant nods sympathetically. “It’s train policy, sir. The doors between the classes stay locked.”

  For a brief moment Will wants to tell him who his father is and demand the door be opened, but he can’t quite do it.

  “If there’s a message,” says the steward, “I’d be happy to send it back.”

  “It’s all right. Thank you.”

  What on earth would he write anyway? He shakes his head as he imagines it.

  I would like my tooth back, please.

  P.S. I’ve wanted to talk to you for three years. You did a tightrope walk. Then you disappeared. You are the most remarkable person I’ve ever met.

  A complete idiot

  Unsteadily he walks back toward the front, feeling the train’s shake and shudder, and wondering how long it will take to get used to.

  At the Terrace car he climbs the stairs and lets himself out. Though the deck is at the back of the car, and protected from the wind, he shivers in the cold night. A number of other passengers stand, taking in the view. Will tilts his head and is awed by the intensity of the stars. Constellations he’s seen only in books are suddenly blazing above his head—every star in Orion’s belt and cudgel! It’s like a whole new world, only now visible to him.

  He looks back along the Boundless, the long endless dark line of it. Green lamps illuminate its flanks. Far away he sees the lighted windows of the second-class dome car, not nearly as big and grand as theirs. A figure stands silhouetted before the bright windows and is joined by a much taller one wearing a top hat. They seem to be facing him.

  The shorter figure raises a hand and waves, and Will instinctively waves back.

  * * *

  When Will returns to the stateroom, his father is wrapped in his robe, smoking a cigar and reading some papers in a pool of amber light.

  “Did you get to ask your question?” he asks, looking up.

  Will shakes his head. “They were already in second class; the steward wouldn’t let me through.”

  Will’s father nods. “Strict train policy. What did you want to ask him?”

  “About the disappearing act,” Will says. He doesn’t want to tell him about the girl; he doesn’t know how to explain his urgent desire to talk to her. It would just embarrass him.

  On the desk he sees the key Mr. Dorian spirited from his father’s pocket. It’s unusually thick, with a great many notches. Instinctively he knows what it does.

  “It’s for Mr. Van Horne’s funeral car, isn’t it?”

  His father’s lips compress in a moment of hesitation, but then he answers, “Yes, and I rather wish Mr. Dorian hadn’t drawn attention to it.”

  “Well, no one could know what it’s for, could they?”

  “You did.”

  “It was the way you looked when you saw him holding it. I could tell it was important. But didn’t you say the funeral car had no door?”

  “That’s what we’ve told the papers. The car’s made from the hull of an old battleship, steel plates half an inch thick. But even so, there’s a door.”

  “Where?” Will asks.

  His father’s expression is poised between amusement and annoyance. “There are limits to what I’ll tell you,” he says. “But the key isn’t just for the door. Before you can even open the door—if you can find it—there’s another lock that needs attention.”

  “And what’s that one for?”

  “It turns off the high-voltage current traveling through the outer walls of the car.”

  “You’re joking!”

  He shakes his head. “Enough to knock you out cold. Van Horne designed it himself. I remember him showing me sketches years ago. He wanted his coffin and the spike safe from grave robbers.”

  Will frowns, thinking about it. “But doesn’t the guard get electrocuted?”

  “He’s never inside or on top. He has his own little room at the back of the adjoining maintenance car.”

  Will watches his father closely. “What else is inside?”

  James Everett releases a mouthful of smoke. “Plenty of things. Van Horne was quite a collector and he wanted his favorite belongings with him.”

  “You’ve been inside, then?”

  Will doubts his father would be this forthcoming at home, but maybe there is something about the moving train that makes him more talkative.

  “Yes, I oversaw the loading of the car. It was done in secret in the middle of the night.” His gaze drifts away, as if remembering something amazing—or alarming. “Good luck to anyone who gets inside, is all I can say.”

  Will wishes he could have seen it, a treasure trove illuminated by lantern light.

  “And you’ve got the only key?”

  “There’s one other. The guard has it.”

  Will remembers the guard
, a portly bearded man, shooing spectators away.

  “There,” his father says, stubbing out his cigar. “You know things that only a handful of people know.”

  Will’s glad his father has confided in him; he feels encouraged.

  “We never finished our conversation at dinner.”

  His father’s face closes. “Yes, we did.”

  “How?”

  “You said you wanted to go to art school in San Francisco. I’m against it. I’ll pay for proper training at a university if you mean to study something sensible. But you’ll not go to study art. I forbid it.”

  Forbid. Standing before his father, Will feels a hot tremor move through him, and knows he cannot speak. His voice will shake with rage, and he refuses to look weak before his father.

  Instead he turns and climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

  Standing before the window, all he can see is his own reflection. He doesn’t want to look at himself, so he turns off the electric light. He leans his head against the cool glass, tries to breathe evenly.

  He thinks of Maren. Is it her real name? Don’t circus people have special names? She shed her chains; she disappeared right before everyone’s eyes. It was incredible. He wishes he could do something like that.

  Tomorrow when the train stops, he’ll step off and catch up with her as she’s heading back to the Zirkus Dante cars. He wants to know what she’s done since he last saw her, all the places she’s been, all the new tricks she can do.

  He takes out his sketchbook and tries to conjure her stepping out onto the stage. Over the years, he has tried to draw her many times, but the results never satisfied him—and this time is no exception.

  The train is surprisingly noisy clattering down the tracks, hurtling through the night. He gets ready for bed. On his night table is a small brick of waxed cotton, which the porter said you can put in your ears. But Will doesn’t want to block out the sound of the train. He likes it. The endless motion.

  Through the night his sleep is filled with whistles, long and short—and the image of a black horse galloping along the tracks, always just ahead of him.

  His dreams bound after it.

  THE JUNCTION

  * * *

  It’s not until after lunch that the Boundless nears the Junction. Will feels the train slow, and rushes to the Terrace car for a better view. Outside on the deck he realizes it’s much colder now that they’ve swung farther north. Pine trees grow close against the tracks. He can see no sign of a town or station yet.

  Back in the stateroom he finds his father packing himself a small valise. He’s dressed simply in shirt, trousers and vest, and an engineer’s cap. He seems leaner and younger somehow, more like the man Will met in Craigellachie three years ago. Will can tell he’s excited.

  “She’s quite a train to drive,” his father says.

  Will is still angry with him, for his stern words last night and for leaving him alone while he has another adventure. He says nothing.

  “You’ll mind yourself while I’m away,” says his father. “If you need anything, ask Beecham.”

  Will grunts. The train gives several short blasts and slows even more. Beyond the windows the trees draw back from the gravel shoulders of the tracks. He sees a few stalls and vendors, and then more stalls, and small tents, and then larger canvas buildings, and yet more stalls and people crammed amongst them, so many people, waving at the train as it slowly trundles past.

  “It springs up whenever a train makes a stop,” his father says. “They put it up overnight and take it down after the train leaves. It’s mostly for the colonists. There’s no meal service on their cars, so they have to lay in provisions for the journey.”

  Will feels a restless pulse of excitement as he watches all the merchants calling out and waving up at the train, grinning. It feels like a carnival—and a gigantic one at that, for it stretches on and on, all the way to the edge of the station platform.

  When the Boundless finally comes to a halt, Will’s father picks up his valise and they leave the stateroom together. Stairs have been lowered from the front of their car, and Will steps down onto the platform. His body feels as though it’s still in motion, and he sways like a sailor just come ashore. As the gentlemen and ladies disembark, tastefully dressed merchants offer flutes of sparkling wine, oranges from a wicker basket, silk scarves.

  “I’ll see you in Lionsgate City, then,” his father says.

  Will nods, unwilling to let his father know he’s hurt. “How long is the stop here? I’d like to have a look around.”

  “Just make sure to be back aboard by six. That’s when we leave. And watch out for pickpockets.”

  Will glances at his watch. He has a good four hours. Plenty of time to find Maren. He hurriedly pats his jacket pocket to make sure he has his sketchbook and a few pencils.

  Lots of other passengers from first class have stepped out by now. They saunter about, taking the air. A crowd is already knotted around the funeral carriage, and Will pauses to get a good look. It is night black, with ornamental metal plumes spiking high at each corner. The carriage is the size of a boxcar and gives an impression of immense thickness and strength. He can easily believe it was welded together from battleship steel. It even looks like something dredged from the ocean deeps, for its sides are festooned with intricate decorations, like barnacles.

  “Have a good look, Ladies and Gents,” the guard says from the other side of a velvet cordon. He has a meaty square face and looks strong enough, but his belly makes too tight a bulge against his jacket. “Keep your distance, please, or you’ll get a nasty shock.”

  He points at the large white letters painted along the bottom half of the car: danger! do not touch! high voltage!

  As if for emphasis a crow lands on top of the car. There is a violent snap and a flash of light, and the crow falls, stunned, to the gravel. Several people step back with gasps.

  “Discourages vandalism, is all,” says the guard with a stretch and a yawn.

  On the side of the carriage is a tombstone-shaped sign with the words:

  Herein lie the remains of William Cornelius Van Horne.

  With the building of the great railroad, he did more than any other

  Man to ensure forever that:

  “He shall have dominion from sea to sea.” (Psalms 72:8)

  “Fine tomb,” says a fellow in a brakeman’s overalls and cap, “for an old slave driver.”

  The guard’s eyes widen. “You knew him?”

  “Blasted rock for him in the mountains. He’d sooner send a man to his death than wait a minute. He was never a regular working man like you or me.”

  The guard says nothing. The brakeman offers him a cigarette, which the guard takes.

  Will wouldn’t mind getting a sketch of the funeral car, but he’s in too much of a hurry to find Maren. Surely she’ll want to look around the shantytown too. Shouts and laughter and music lilt through the air, drawing Will like a siren song. He plunges into the crowd.

  Just beyond the platform eager boys are selling warm sticky buns and cider. A toothless man thrusts a paper cone of sugared almonds into Will’s hand, and Will decides it’s easiest just to drop some coins into the man’s cup. Someone is playing the accordion. Standing beside his cart, a farmer proclaims his apples and pears the finest in the land. A group of silent brown-robed monks arranges rounds of cheese on an overturned wooden crate.

  Will doesn’t mind the noisy tussle of the crowd. He walks and walks. His eyes search for Maren, and then he realizes she probably won’t be wearing last night’s outfit. The thought of her shapely legs makes his cheeks feel hot. How will he find her in this crush? He’s alongside third-class now, and a small city is pouring off the Boundless. But maybe Maren is looking for him too.

  “Sasquatch urine!” a man bellows from behind his plank counter. “You won’t find it an
ywhere else!”

  Will tries to give him a wide berth, but to his dismay the man’s eyes lock on his.

  “Young sir! For you, a special rate!” He holds out a vial.

  Will stares at his shoes but feels rude just walking past. And he has to admit he’s curious.

  “What’s it for?” he asks.

  The fellow’s face creases with surprise. “What’s it for? My son, this ain’t the city. I don’t know where you’re going—”

  “Victoria,” Will tells him.

  “Well, there you are. That island is filled with bears and mountain lions—and worse.” He gives the vial a little shake. “This here’s your surefire protection. This urine is guaranteed from a male sasquatch. Obtained at great personal risk! Put a bit of this on you, and all the other animals stay away. You’re untouchable!”

  “How do they collect the urine?” Will can’t help asking.

  “Well, my son, these people are brave souls. Fearless. You’ve never seen one of these animals up close.”

  Will says nothing.

  “But maybe you don’t plan to leave the city,” says the merchant, taking in Will’s clothes and shoes, “in which case, you’ll have no need of it.”

  “I have seen one, actually,” Will says.

  The vendor’s eyes narrow, taking a second look at him. “Then you’ll want some.”

  “I’ll take a vial.”

  “My special price of just one dollar.”

  It seems a lot for a little bit of urine, but Will supposes it was quite difficult to collect—unless it’s just well water. He finds the coins in his pocket and hands them over.

  “And there you are,” says the fellow, smiling. “Use it wisely.”

  As Will walks away, he can’t resist wiggling out the cork and taking a sniff. His nostrils flinch. It certainly smells bad, with an unmistakable skunky whiff which makes his skin prickle for a moment. He recorks the vial and puts it carefully into his breast pocket, padded by his handkerchief.

  Looking at his watch, he sees he’s been walking for a good hour. His feet are beginning to get sore. He’s alongside the colonist cars now, and there are all kinds of stalls selling food and clothing. People noisily compete for the potatoes, a pair of boots, a jar of spirits, a side of bacon. A woman in a spattered apron twists the neck of a chicken and begins to pluck it. Sausages spit on braziers; soup pots bubble. Smells billow past him like steam from a locomotive.