The Boundless

by Kenneth Oppel

  “What does he speak?”

  “Hindi,” says the ringmaster.

  “,” says Will politely, just as he was coached by one of the performers an hour before.

  Drurie’s eyes widen. “What did he just say?”

  “He apologized for not speaking English,” says Mr. Dorian.

  “And the . . . large gentleman?” Drurie asks with some concern.

  “Mr. Eugene Beauprey. He won’t be accompanying us.”

  “Excellent. Please come aboard.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Beauprey,” Maren says, and gives the giant a hug around his trunklike waist.

  “I will see you in Lionsgate City, Little Wonder,” he replies fondly. He gives one last fierce look around, as if daring anyone to bother her, then starts back to the Zirkus Dante cars, whistling.

  Will boards. He remembers being squished into third class when he was younger, but he’s never seen anything quite like this. At first he thinks it must be the baggage car, for there are so many things everywhere, suitcases and sacks and oddly-shaped bundles trussed up with twine. But amongst it all there are people—far too many to count! Even though many passengers are still outside, the place feels impossibly full.

  The smell barrages Will. Sausage and unlaundered clothes, and the reek of an overused toilet. Pickles, sweat, wet boots, and incense all add to the din of smell.

  On either side of a narrow aisle are rows of bare wooden benches. An old man bounces a crying baby on his knee, singing a nursery rhyme in another language. Four men have their heads bowed over a game of cards. An anxious woman counts rosary beads. Between two fellows is spread a map, and they are stabbing their fingers at it and arguing.

  And above these wooden benches are two levels of pull-down berths. On one a mother and a baby sleep curled up together; on another a burly man picks at his big toe. Two boys leap between berths while a mother hollers at them from the floor. Threadbare blankets and lumpy makeshift pillows are scattered everywhere. There is scarcely room to move. More children bound down and up the aisle, and clamber over the backs of the bench seats, making a playground of the carriage. The only light comes from narrow windows, high up near the ceiling, and a few oil lamps secured to the walls.

  Slowly at first, and then more quickly, people start to notice Will and the others.

  “Circus . . .”

  “Zirkus . . .”

  “Sirkuksen . . .”

  “Cirkuszi . . .”

  The word whispers and slithers itself through the car in all different languages. Most of the people look glad. A few shrink back as the trio passes. A small girl cries at the sight of Mr. Dorian in his severe black top hat and coat—until the ringmaster pulls a lollipop from his pocket and hands it to her. Suddenly the performers have a trail of children, their hands tugging, eyes imploring. More lollipops and jawbreakers appear from the ringmaster’s bottomless pockets. Applause and cheers ring out from the passengers.

  “You’ll need to clear this aisle,” Drurie calls out pointlessly, for no one heeds him. “You can’t have all this here! It must be cleared of obstructions! Is that a chicken?”

  A stove blazes in the center of the car. No fewer than seven pots sputter atop it. Will supposes this is how they eat: You cook when the stove’s free and take your meals whenever you can.

  “Is there just the one stove?” Maren asks Drurie.

  He looks at her with a confused smile and ignores her question as if it isn’t even worth consideration.

  “I’m sorry you have to pass through all this,” Drurie says to Mr. Dorian. “It’s rather ripe in here.”

  “Not surprising,” Mr. Dorian remarks tartly, “as it seems they have only one washroom per car.”

  As Will makes his way, he realizes these people have less room to themselves than the Zirkus Dante animals. It can’t be right to have such cramped quarters when there is such luxury farther up the train. Does his father know how terrible it is back here?

  “These people are fortunate to get passage on the Boundless at all,” Drurie says with a sniff. “They’re the poorest of the poor, and they’ve washed up on the shores of our country to claim our land.”

  “Interesting,” says Mr. Dorian. “My mother’s people are Cree Indian. Perhaps it’s people like you who have washed up on our shores. A stimulating thought, don’t you think?”

  Drurie clears his throat and keeps walking. “There’s rumors we may have a murderer aboard,” he says, “and I’d bet anything it’s one of these folks. I’d keep your eyes peeled.”

  Mr. Dorian lifts his hat to a large woman in a colorful headdress. “Good day, ma’am. Now, Drurie, if you could show us to where we’ll be performing.”

  “We’ve made space for you a few cars up,” he says. “I hope it’s adequate.”

  “I’m sure it’s more than adequate,” says Mr. Dorian.

  They cross several more carriages before they reach a car with an entire section that’s been curtained off at the back.

  Will expects this must be the stage, but when Drurie parts the curtains, Will sees what appears to be a small shop with many shelves: loaves of pumpernickel bread, cooked hams, tins of vegetables, some fresh fruit, bars of soap, towels, various corked bottles of different shapes and colors. A finely turned-out gentlemen sitting on a cushioned bench looks up as they enter.

  “Ah, you must be the entertainment for the day,” he says in what sounds to Will like an upper-crust English accent. “I’m Mr. Peters.”

  Right away Will notices how amazingly clean his fingernails are—and not only clean but buffed and shaped in a perfect curve.

  “You’re the chief porter?” Mr. Dorian inquires.

  “No, no, just a paying passenger. Isn’t that right, Drurie?”

  “Yes, Mr. Peters, sir,” says Drurie.

  He certainly does not look like the other passengers. He has an entire corner of the carriage, the equivalent of three rows of seats, curtained off with thick drapery. At each entrance, front and back, sits a bearded man in a bulky coat, a rifle tilted against his seat.

  “You’re a merchant, too, by the looks of it,” says Mr. Dorian, surveying his goods.

  “Well, as you know, the Boundless doesn’t provide a meal service to these poor people, so I do my bit,” says Peters.

  “Two dollars for a loaf of bread,” says Maren, reading the sign.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “It seems a lot for a loaf of bread,” she remarks.

  “That’s the fair market price aboard the Boundless, young miss. And before you get all holy on me, how many people of my sort do you think would choose to ride with this class of people? I do it so I can help them.”

  “Ah,” says Mr. Dorian. “That is very noble of you.”

  “We’re just in the next car,” says Drurie, eager to lead them on.

  “It’s disgusting,” mutters Maren when they’ve left.

  “Is the conductor aware there is a profiteer aboard the train?” Mr. Dorian asks Drurie, who looks distinctly uncomfortable.

  “He’s paid for all those seats fair and square,” says Drurie. “The passengers are happy enough to have him aboard when they need something.”

  To Will it sounds like a speech he’s made before. He wonders again if his father knows this is going on aboard the Boundless.

  “We’ve had the passengers clear an area here,” Drurie says curtly, leading them into the middle of the car. Will can just imagine how the likes of Drurie would go about getting people to leave their seats. But he’s surprised to be greeted only by grins, excited smiles, and more applause by all the people they’ve displaced.

  “Thank you, thank you,” says Mr. Dorian graciously. “Vielen Dank. Merci. Grazie. We promise you a good show, and you shall have the best seats in the house. We begin in one hour!”

  Sheets have been pegged up t
o form a curtain and backstage area around the several vacated rows of seats. Drurie bids them good day and exits through the door at the front of the carriage.

  Will’s eyes linger on that door. Beyond it there is another colonist car, and hundreds more, leading to third class, then second class and finally first. The journey is right there, ready for him to take.

  “The pair of them are disgusting,” says Maren, setting down her bag behind the curtains. “Peters and that cowardly porter. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

  “It has always been thus,” says Mr. Dorian. “I don’t see it changing.”

  All around them is the din of the passengers, so Will feels he can speak in a whisper without danger.

  “I’m going to tell my father. He’s a fair man. He won’t stand for it.”

  Mr. Dorian smiles faintly. “You of all people should know how the railway was made, William. On the backs of poorly paid laborers. A dollar a day to risk your life. Less if you weren’t a white man.”

  “Well,” says Will stubbornly, “my father was one of those laborers. He wouldn’t want to see them badly treated on his own train.”

  Mentioning his father makes Will all the more impatient. “I’ve been thinking. . . . I can find my way from here.”

  Maren looks at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t need me. I can make my way up front.”

  “But that’s not the plan!”

  Mr. Dorian regards him calmly. “I wouldn’t advise it, William. You have no ticket, no passport to get between cars. They won’t let you through. Even if they did, you can be sure Brogan’s men are watching—and it seems to me he’s been talking this up with Drurie, and maybe other porters too. They’re on the lookout for a murderer, and they’ll report anything suspicious back to Brogan. You’re safest to wait with us until we reach first class.”

  “It’s only two more nights, Will,” Maren reminds him. She seems genuinely concerned. “You’re safest with us.”

  Chewing his lip, Will looks again at the door. What if Brogan tries to steal the key from his father and there’s a fight? His father is strong, but how good is he with his fists—or against a knife? In his stories he mentioned breaking up plenty of fights. If he could survive three years working the rails, he can handle the likes of Brogan.

  “All right,” he says, dragging his eyes away from the door. He’s still worried about his father, and he’s also terrified of performing. Never in his life has he done something like this. In school when he had to speak before the class, he dreaded it for days beforehand. And on the day itself he felt such intense horror walking up before the other students that he thought he might pass out. Every useful thought and word flew from his head.

  “It’ll be fine,” Maren whispers as though reading his mind. “You’re not Will Everett anymore. You’re someone completely different. That’s the wonderful thing about performing—it’s not even you up there. It’s someone who has amazing skills and power you never dreamed you could have.”

  For a flash he feels it again, the freedom of inhabiting another body that isn’t quite his own.

  “You’re going to love it,” Maren tells him.

  * * *

  Brogan strides with ease across the tops of the cars, heading forward. This is his terrain, this constantly moving, jostling road, and he knows its every landmark. He’s as sure-footed as a mountain goat, despite a limp.

  The limp’s not from blasting or laying steel. Years he spent working the railway. Men died around him all the time, especially the Chinamen, but he was charmed. He was the best blaster around, and he wasn’t injured until the very last day when the sasquatch grabbed his leg and hurled him into the gorge. He should have been killed. But there was a bit of scrub on the cliff face and he grabbed hold and stayed put, invisible, until the coast was clear. Then he climbed back and limped his way over the mountain to make a new identity for himself. A new name was all it took.

  Brogan doesn’t know if the Everett boy is on or off the train. Maybe the kid did fall off that night. All Brogan knows is there’s no way he’s going back into those Zirkus cars with that sasquatch around. There’s not much he’s afraid of, but those beasts turn his insides to liquid.

  It doesn’t matter, though. There’s another key. The drunken fool of a guard told him so.

  Brogan reaches the front of first class and drops down onto the platform. Brakemen aren’t supposed to enter first-class cars. He stands out; he’s not dressed pretty, but he’ll be quick.

  He steps into the elegant carriage and sticks his head into the steward’s office. Empty. On the wall is a board of stateroom keys, all neatly labeled for the trip. He sees the one marked EVERETT and takes it. The stateroom is the first one down. He’s inside in two seconds.

  He listens, but there’s no one moving about upstairs. He moves to the rolltop desk and starts pulling open drawers, sifting through papers. Nothing. Checking every surface, every shelf and cubbyhole, he moves through the parlor and then upstairs.

  The main bedroom looks as though it hasn’t been slept in. He checks through the chest of drawers without any luck. Then the boy’s room. Same.

  He’s in a rage, wanting to slam and break the room apart. He takes a moment to calm his breathing.

  The only other key must be on James Everett’s body.

  He leaves the room as he found it, exits the car, and climbs to the roof.

  It will be bloodier. But there’s no going back now.

  His new plan assembles itself with each step of his long journey back.

  * * *

  Will peeks through the gap in the curtains.

  The Boundless is moving again, and with all the passengers back aboard, the car seems impossibly full. On either side of the makeshift stage, people are sitting on the floor, in one another’s laps, perching on one another’s shoulders, dangling off the dangerously sagging berths.

  Onstage Mr. Dorian has just mesmerized a fellow who chirps like a bird. The crowd laughs uproariously.

  Will lets the curtain fall into place, and swallows.

  “You all right?” Maren whispers to him.

  He nods. He doesn’t want to talk.

  Four portraits—that’s all he has to draw. But he feels like he might throw up. In his pocket his hand finds the sasquatch tooth, and he rubs its pitted surface.

  “I’ll be with you the whole time,” she says, and gives his hand a squeeze. For a moment he’s distracted by the touch of her skin against his, but then Mr. Dorian’s voice rings out his cue.

  “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, you are about to witness a most curious thing. Throughout history there have been gifted artists who can draw a portrait—but could any of them draw a portrait without setting eyes on their subject? The young man you are about to meet was born in the kingdom of India and studied many years to hone his gift. Four lucky people in this audience will be chosen to have their portraits drawn. I introduce to you Amit, the spirit artist!”

  Will doesn’t hear most of this. It’s just a rattle of words in his head. Maren’s gentle nudge tells him he’s on. He swallows and walks out. Mercifully he has only a brief moment to see the audience, a solid mass of bodies and heads and expectant heat. He’s glad when Maren leads him to the stool and he sits, facing the wall.

  “Who will be the first to be drawn?” Mr. Dorian asks.

  A veritable roar consumes the carriage.

  “You, sir, come forward, please. Stand here. That’s it, directly behind him. Now behold. To make sure he cannot see a thing . . .”

  On cue Maren holds the scarf in front of the audience. She walks behind Will to tie it around the face of the volunteer.

  “Can you see anything, sir?” Mr. Dorian asks.

  “Nyet. No thing!”

  “Bind our spirit artist, then,” says Mr. Dorian, “and let him begin!”


  The scarf is wound around Will’s head. He can see through it perfectly. He reaches out blindly with his hands, and Maren gives him his sketchbook and pencil. Then she takes a few paces back and stands in front of him.

  He focuses on the ingenious mirrored sequins on Maren’s dress. Together they form a kind of mosaic. It’s not a perfect image by any means, but it’s enough. Will and Maren agreed on a system beforehand. He scratches his ear, she turns to the right; he taps his foot, she turns to the left. He sees the face of the man. A rectangle of solid flesh and bone. A single heavy eyebrow.

  Will is nervous and worries they’ll see his hand shaking, but he remembers his childhood trick. His eye is the pencil. And so he starts, traveling this little landscape of wrinkles and curves, shading here and there. He works quickly, knowing he cannot let the audience wait too long.

  It is not good work, but after one minute Mr. Dorian whisks the portrait away and holds it before the audience.

  “Is not the likeness amazing!” he cries.

  There is a healthy murmur of approval, then clapping, and then a crush of people, pushing forward to be next. Will does another, more confidently now. In the reflection of Maren’s sequins, he glimpses the look of delight when the woman is given her sketch. She shows it to her husband and children. She does not even want to fold it. He wonders if she’s ever had her photograph taken.

  Two more, and then quite suddenly he is done, taking his bow, buffeted by applause. When he and Maren step back behind the curtain, he feels ignited, unable to stand still.

  Maren laughs. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I liked it!” It’s so noisy all around them, he has no fear of being overheard.

  “Told you. You’ll join the circus yet!”

  “Do you get nervous anymore?” he asks.

  “Sometimes.”

  When Maren is called out to do her act, Will watches intently through a gap in the curtain.

  She is calm and poised. In her hand she holds a compact spool, like something you’d see on a fishing rod. As she turns the small handle, wire begins to pay out rigidly in a horizontal line. At its end is a small grappling hook. Round and round she turns the wheel, and the line stretches out. The audience shuffles out of the way as it passes them. Will has never seen such a device, a little magic trick in itself. When the line reaches all the way across the carriage, Maren gives a little twist of her wrist, and the hooked end grips a ledge about three feet up the wall.