The Boundless

by Kenneth Oppel

  Stealthily they pad along the plush carpeted hallway. Edison bulbs glow from behind decorative pink shades. The trio reaches the end of the car. Maren checks the rooftop and nods at the others, and they silently open the door and cross to a double-decker car.

  Inside, the sound of water greets Will. He climbs six steps to the black-and-white-tiled deck of the swimming pool. The silver fountain in its center sends spray into the fish-flecked water. The only light comes from the pool itself and casts undulating pale blue reflections on the ceiling.

  Will follows the others along the deck, past the cloth changing tents. From the far end of the car, above the noise of tinkling water, comes the precise metallic sound of a doorknob turning.

  He grabs Maren’s hand and pulls her inside the nearest tent. There’s a zipper to close the flaps, but Will doesn’t want to make any noise. Through the narrow crack, he sees Mr. Dorian disappearing into the tent in front of theirs.

  Climbing the steps to the deck, a brakeman comes into view, wearing a peaked cap. Even though Will can’t see his face clearly, he thinks it belongs to Mackie. In his hands is a long metal pole with a pronged end. He stands for a moment, listening.

  Walking slowly along the deck, Mackie casually swings his metal pole into the first changing tent. With a smacking sound the heavy fabric puckers deeply. He moves on to the second changing tent, strikes it hard at chest level, keeps going. Will watches in horror as Mackie nears Mr. Dorian’s tent. Will grips Maren’s hand tightly. The brakeman hits the tent hard. The fabric dents, and an almost comical squeak comes from inside.

  “That really hurt!”

  “Come out here!” barks Mackie, taking a step back and adjusting his grip on the pole. Will expects a bloodied Mr. Dorian to stagger out, but no one emerges.

  “Out!” Mackie snaps. He strikes the tent again at knee level.

  Another high-pitched yelp comes from inside, and then, “Come and get me!”

  Mackie scowls. With the end of his pole he parts the flaps, and then strides in, ready to wallop. The moment he’s inside, Mr. Dorian, to Will’s huge amazement, steps out of another tent altogether. With one swift movement Mr. Dorian zips Mackie into the tent and delivers a high kick. The tent topples over, thrashing. Mackie curses from inside.

  “Give me a hand!” the ringmaster calls out.

  Will runs over with Maren, and they take hold of the tent and bundle it into the pool. Exotic fish dart away like colored bolts of lightning. The fabric is soaked within seconds and proceeds to sink.

  “He’ll drown!” Will says, but already he can see Mackie’s hand thrust from the churning tent and start to unzip the flaps.

  Outside the swimming pool car Mr. Dorian leads them once more onto the roof of the Boundless. On the double-decker cars Will feels the sway of the train more strongly. Twice the distance to fall.

  Slowly his eyes readjust to the night as he pushes himself to keep up with Maren and Mr. Dorian. He knows the three of them need to put distance between themselves and Mackie.

  Heart hammering, he makes his first jump and lands in a crouch, slightly off center. By the third jump he starts to feel more confident again. He tries to keep track of where they are in first class, and guesses the dining cars. Up ahead he spots the pale glow of the Terrace car, gaslight still burning faintly inside. Several minutes later they leap onto it—the place where he stood just days ago as the train left Halifax station. It seems like a memory from someone else’s life. Through the domed glass he sees a solitary gentleman dozing in an armchair, his hand still closed around his glass of brandy.

  Another jump, and another. Beneath him: the parlor cars, the billiards room, the library. And there, ahead of him in the long distance, is the locomotive. Rising above the coal-packed tender, it’s a small engine city, a symphony of pistons, its vast smokestack reaching into the sky.

  Too hastily Will makes the next jump. His feet have just left the roof when the wind shifts and a cloud of soot and heat washes over him, singeing his eyes. He blinks furiously and sees the next car curve away from him.

  A grunt escapes his throat as he stretches out his arms. He hits the corner of the roof with only one foot, and crashes onto his shoulder, scrabbling to grab something.

  Maren hears his cry, turns, and throws herself toward him. Sliding along the sloped roof, she seizes his wrist. She is small, but he feels her amazing, compact strength as she pulls. With her help he gets both feet against the roof and pushes himself to the center of the car.

  “Careful,” she says, leaning her forehead against his.

  Breathing fast, he nods and follows her. Before long he realizes he’s walking over the top of the bedroom he spent all of one night in. And after that the cars become single-deck again, and the three of them have to proceed more quietly than ever, for these are maintenance and crew cars, where the porters and stewards will soon be waking and preparing for another day aboard the Boundless.

  Will can see the ornamental metal plumes of the funeral car now, and after another two cars, they’ve arrived. He climbs down after Mr. Dorian and Maren to the small juddering platform. At his back is the doorless end of a maintenance car—and before them, the darkly gleaming steel of the funeral car.

  “Stay back,” Mr. Dorian warns them.

  There is a great deal of noise from the tracks, but Will is aware of an extra vibration: electricity coursing through the metal exterior.

  The ringmaster pulls out his timepiece and examines its hands. “We have thirty-five minutes.”

  “Until what?” Will asks, but Mr. Dorian ignores him and lights his lantern.

  Maren crouches and removes her coat, taking out her amazing spool of wire. It was one thing to talk about it, even to imagine it, but now that Will is peering beneath the funeral carriage, seeing the speed of the ties as they clatter past, feeling the sway and shudder of the train—he feels terror for her.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

  “Shush.” She pulls on rubber-soled slippers. “You never say that to someone before a performance.”

  “This isn’t a performance,” he says.

  “She trained for this,” Mr. Dorian reminds him.

  “Are you even sure there’s room?”

  “It can be done,” Mr. Dorian tells him. “I made careful measurements.”

  Again Will stares at the tiny hurtling space and imagines her falling.

  “Why can’t you wait until we’re at a stop?” he demands.

  “It has to be now,” Mr. Dorian says sharply.

  “Why?”

  “That’s enough, William!”

  “But this isn’t safe!” Will exclaims, suddenly trembling with fury. “If it’s so important to you, why don’t you do it?”

  “Be quiet!”

  It’s Maren who speaks, and Will turns in surprise to her angry face.

  “Go if you want!” she says. “But stop interfering!”

  His face burns as if he’s just been slapped. He was trying to protect her, and she treats him like a squalling baby.

  “Go ahead, then!” he snaps, to cover up his hurt. He feels close to tears. He wants to climb the ladder and head back to first class. Leave them to their death-defying feats and insane robbery! But he stays put.

  As Maren slides toward the edge of the platform, he takes the key from his pocket and hands it to her. “Here. Use the original. It might work better.”

  “Thank you, Will.”

  Mr. Dorian arranges the shutters of his lantern to send a strong skinny beam into the whirling world beneath the carriage. Oiled steel and truss wires and spinning metal rods—and the clattering din of the ties hurtling past.

  Maren turns the handle of the spool. The rigid wire extends, longer and longer.

  “Remember you can’t touch any part of the undercarriage,” Mr. Dorian warns her.

&nb
sp; She nods and pays out the miraculous wire, guiding it beneath the bottom of the carriage until it hooks across a horizontal rod on the far coupling. She secures her end to the underside of the platform. She has her tightrope.

  In a single fluid motion she swings herself onto the wire, arms held out, balancing on her back. Her feet, in their rubber-soled slippers, push her deeper under the train. Her legs can only bend slightly, so they don’t hit the steel undercarriage.

  The ringmaster lies flat so he can angle the light for Maren. Will presses his cheek against the cold metal to see better. He dares not say a word. The train jolts, and Maren sways violently, hands dancing through the air. He wants to plead with her to come back.

  “The lock is coming up now,” calls out Mr. Dorian calmly, for Maren can’t see what is behind her. “Another few pushes. . . . There.”

  Maren balances beneath a black box. She takes the key from her sleeve. Swaying side to side in sync with the train, she inserts the key into the lock and turns. The faint buzzing in Will’s ears ceases.

  “You’ve done it, my girl,” breathes Mr. Dorian. “You clever girl, you’ve done it. Come back now, and carefully!”

  The return trip is no less anxious for Will, watching as Maren slides back—though this time she can reach up with her hands and use the undercarriage to balance and propel herself.

  She slides out onto the platform and springs to her feet with a huge smile. Will can’t help wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her tight with relief.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she says into his ear.

  “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  “Let’s hurry,” Mr. Dorian says.

  They climb the ladder to the roof and walk forward. Mr. Dorian fastens his measure of rope to a metal rung and rappels swiftly over the side. Will watches as the ringmaster traces the dense metal foliage with his hands, and finally inserts the key. A section of the car pops out and slides back flush. The ringmaster swings himself inside.

  “You go,” Maren tells Will. “I’ll hold the line still for you.”

  “Thanks,” Will says gratefully.

  If someone told him, days ago, he’d be lowering himself over the side of a hurtling train car, he would’ve laughed, and wished he had the courage. But he has it now, even though his hands are sweaty with fear. He stares back up at Maren, and the mere sight of her gives him confidence.

  Mr. Dorian is waiting for him inside the hatchway and seizes his arm to pull him in. Within seconds Maren stands beside them. Mr. Dorian lights his lantern again.

  The interior is heavy with a cloying musk: candle wax, dust, furniture polish, and a faintly sweet odor that Will fears is the slowly decomposing remains of Cornelius Van Horne. The carriage reminds Will of pictures he’s seen of a pharaoh’s tomb, all manner of things piled and jumbled about. A chair and footstool that must have been favorites. A tall urn with peacock feathers. A chess set with the pieces set out, as if about to be played. A battered pair of snowshoes. The taxidermy of a beloved dog. Hanging from the wall is a large framed photograph. Will walks closer, and gasps.

  It’s a photograph he’s never before seen—but he is its subject. It’s from Craigellachie. There he is, front and center, the hammer frozen just as it connects with the head of the last spike.

  “That’s incredible,” Maren says. “How come no one knows this?”

  “Donald Smith liked the other photo better,” says the ringmaster. “Even though he just bent the spike and it needed straightening.”

  “But this one’s the truth,” Maren says, smiling at Will.

  He thinks there’s admiration in her eyes, and he drinks it in. He’s never really made much of the story—has never seen it as an achievement of his own. He just happened to be sitting there on the platform at Farewell, and Mr. Van Horne took a liking to him.

  “The last spike of the railway,” she says. “You’re sort of famous.”

  “No,” he says. “I did nothing to build it.”

  Will sees Mr. Dorian’s eyes sweeping the walls.

  “Where’s the painting?” Will asks.

  “Not here. He loved it a great deal. It will be farther in.”

  The ringmaster moves to an inner wall that, Will realizes, must divide the carriage in half. In its center is a metal door that looks like the entrance to a bank vault.

  “We’ll never get through,” Will murmurs. “We’ve no key to that. Can you pick it?”

  Maren lets out a deep breath and shakes her head.

  “No need,” Mr. Dorian says, surprising them both. “The lock is on a timer.”

  Faintly Will hears a tick emanating from within the door, where two clocks sit side by side.

  “You’ll see,” says Mr. Dorian, “that the first clock has our current time, and the second the time and date when we arrive in Lionsgate City. The lock is timed to open only then.”

  “So what’re we to do?” Will asks, exasperated. If Mr. Dorian has known this all along, why on earth has he led them on this fool’s journey?

  Mr. Dorian consults his watch. “As I’ve shown you, time is an unreliable thing. In five minutes we’ll be passing between time zones.”

  Will remembers how the hands faltered on his watch. “But I was never sure if that was just . . .”

  “A trick?” Mr. Dorian asks with a smile. “The universe plays the best tricks of all.”

  “You knew all along about this lock?” Maren asks, amazed.

  “Of course,” replies Mr. Dorian. “I know the man who designed the lock. Me.”

  “So when we pass through the time zone . . .” Maren begins.

  “The hands will falter. The clock will stop, and for a few moments the lock will think we’ve reached our destination—or at least have no notion of time at all. In either case it will open.”

  The sound of slow applause makes Will whirl. Brogan stands behind them, clapping. Flanking him are Chisholm, a knife gripped in his jittery hand, and Mackie, his damp clothes plastered to his powerful body. Brass knuckles rim his right fist. Brogan holds a pistol.

  “Good thing we let you lead the way,” Brogan says. “The key was just the beginning, wasn’t it? I didn’t realize there’d be more trickery inside. You’re the real key, ain’t you, Mr. Dorian?”

  Will can only stare, taking in the bulk of Brogan and his men.

  “That’s a nice disguise, boy,” the brakeman says. “I knew when I saw you in the saloon—I knew you were up to something. I wondered to myself, why ain’t he talking to that Mountie? And then I knew you wanted something from that funeral car, as much as me.”

  Mr. Dorian says, “That was a fine piece of deduction, Mr. Brogan.”

  “So go ahead, work your magic. . . .”

  “I don’t believe in magic, sir.”

  “Do what you need to do and open that door!”

  Mr. Dorian consults his watch, and Will glimpses the double clock faces: one terrestrial time, the other cosmic.

  “What is it you’re hoping to find inside, Mr. Brogan?” the ringmaster asks calmly, still inspecting his watch.

  “Never you mind. You just get us in.”

  “I see no reason why we can’t all walk away happily with our prizes.”

  Brogan laughs sarcastically. “How d’you know we’re not after the same thing?”

  “I gather you’re after gold.”

  “You’ve no interest in that, I suppose?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Lucky you. How’s this work, then?” Brogan demands.

  “We just have to wait a moment.”

  Brogan glances nervously at Mackie. “Watch him, boys. He’s cunning.”

  And then Brogan puts his pistol against Mr. Dorian’s temple. “Don’t try your tricks on me, my man.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

/>   Will looks at Maren, thinks of the gun going off, and how easily the bullets would pass through her—through all of them—their flesh so soft and helpless.

  Mr. Dorian holds his timepiece up for all to see. “Here it comes, gentlemen. . . .” It’s a strangely dramatic gesture, but everyone looks up. Will’s eyes rivet themselves to the second hand of the clock.

  “Any moment now . . . ,” says Mr. Dorian. “Any moment . . . you’ll feel it when it’s upon you—”

  “Stop talking!” shouts Brogan. Will sees the strain on the brakeman’s face—the lines stretching down his cheeks like dried riverbeds. “I know what you’re trying to do!”

  “There’s nothing at all I need do,” says Mr. Dorian soothingly. “It’s completely beyond my control.”

  “Stop talking,” says Brogan again, but his voice sounds muted now.

  “Nothing at all to be done . . .”

  The strangest feeling wells up within Will, as though his senses want to float free of his body.

  “Any moment now,” he hears Mr. Dorian murmur quietly, a small voice a long distance away.

  Will sees the watch’s second hand pause and tremble. He’s aware of the thunder of the tracks beneath his feet, unnaturally loud. But rising above that is the slow tick of the vault door. He drags his gaze over to it, feels as though he’s moving through water. The first clock embedded in the metal door falters and stalls. From within the door comes a surprisingly dainty click, like fingers being snapped.

  The moment is just a moment, but it contains multitudes. The carriage seems to expand around Will. He’s aware of Maren beside him, and the hulking presence of Brogan and his two men. Curiously, only Mr. Dorian seems absent—but then he is right beside Will, his hand reaching out to take the wheel on the door.

  It spins with such beautiful slowness, the lantern light flashing off the spokes. The door drifts outward. Will’s nostrils fill with a deep, metallic odor, and then the clock hands begin moving again.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Will comes back to himself. Brogan snatches Mr. Dorian’s lantern and waves his pistol at them.

  “Inside!”

  As Will steps through, he hears a metallic thunk from the door. He sees that Mr. Dorian has noticed too—there’s a look of surprise in his eyes—but there is no time to ask him what this sound means.