We leave the chapel and walk back to the main lane.
“Boy, that was some sermon,” Eustace says.
“I don’t understand it,” I say. “Faith in what? Faith can’t move mountains. There’s no evidence to support that. Sounds like thin logic to me.”
“I get it,” Eustace says. “I understand it in every way.” He looks up into the air and puffs up his chest almost like he’s floating. Even Fob is walking in a lighter manner.
I think Eustace is pretending to understand the sermon. He must be, because the sermon didn’t make sense. What is faith? A person can’t just believe something and expect that it’s true. “You do not,” I say. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am not,” says Eustace.
“Well, what’s it mean, then?” I ask.
“Uh—er,” he stammers. “It means you’ve got to believe.”
“Believe in what?” I ask. “What, exactly?”
“Um,” says Eustace. “You know… believe in faith and power and things.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. I shake my head at his simplicity. “To believe in something, you have to have evidence, Eustace. You have to have a scientific basis for belief. It wasn’t too long ago that every dummy thought the sun revolved around the earth, you know. Those dummies believed that. They had faith in that. But it was hocus-pocus and false.”
“Well, what about you?” he asks. “You believe that Medicine Head is talking to you, don’t you?”
I breathe quick, and my face feels hot. “You be quiet about that!” I snap at him.
But he doesn’t stay quiet. “There isn’t a lick of evidence that says that head can talk or do anything else you think it can,” Eustace says, “yet here we are. Away from home. Getting chased by a madman. Thinking about getting on a ship to the most far-away, freezing place on the earth. If that isn’t faith, I don’t know what is.”
I’m so angry at Eustace I could smack him. “It’s not the same!” I shout. “We’re doing research right now. We are conducting a scientific study! Just because I can’t understand how the head works doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a perfectly rational explanation. I know it does!” Then I curl up my hand into a fist, and I punch Eustace right in the arm.
He rubs his arm. Then he smacks the back of my head with the palm of his hand. My ears ring. I’m so surprised, I nearly drop the Medicine Head. I stop and clutch it close to me.
“You believe it has a rational explanation, you mean,” he says. Then he walks on ahead of me. “Don’t ever hit me again!” he yells back over his shoulder. Fob lopes after him. Fob turns back and gives me a bad look, like he’s mad at me, too.
After a while, I nearly lose sight of them. They don’t slow down. They don’t check to see if I’m following. My arms and legs feel stiff. “Go on, then,” I yell. “See if I care!” They continue walking. That’s fine by me. Let him go. Darn old Eustace. He’ll probably get lost. He has no idea where he’s going.
I look around and up and down the lanes of New Bedford. Every building is covered in the same soot and mold and is constructed like a plain old rectangle with a lot of small windows, each of which is made up of twelve smaller windows. Some buildings are painted blue. Some are painted gray. Some are painted white but have now turned gray with grime and soot. Every space is crammed with crates of wool or dippers or candles. From the way it smells, people empty their chamber pots in the lanes.
Everything has changed. I’m not sure where I’m going. I turn back to the last place I spotted Eustace and run to catch up to him.
As I fall in step with him, he turns his head to me, shakes it a bit, and then grins. Just like that, we’re not mad anymore. We walk on with Fob ambling alongside us.
In between the churches are alehouses that sell spirits to sailors. Shops are tucked in between those. People stand outside selling their hooks, fruits, fish, biscuits, boots, and ointments. Lots of other people buy those items. We walk for a long, long time in silence, simply watching the hustle and bustle of the New Bedford citizens.
Finally, Eustace talks to me. “All these folks are their own boss?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “They don’t have slavery here.” It makes me feel good to say that because I know for sure it’s one thing that makes New Bedford better than Tolerone. Eustace could never walk around Kansas and call himself a freeman.
As if reading my mind, Eustace says, “This is a nice place, even if it is dirty. Even if it smells bad, I can take a full breath.”
I try to feel what Eustace is feeling right now. I’m sure he misses his ma. I know he does. But if he had stayed in Tolerone, he’d probably have been separated from her anyway. He’d probably have been shipped off to work all day, every day, for mean old slave owners who would never appreciate a single thing he did or knew. They’d probably never realize how smart Eustace is. They’d probably never appreciate how loyal he is. They’d probably never see how strong and courageous he is. Or how forgiving he is. Even if he is a mama’s boy and hits girls.
I wonder now if he’s looking around and thinking about all the possibilities he has. All those things he had hoped for his life, about being a cowboy or a scientist, are suddenly possible. I feel happy for him. But I feel a bit of unhappiness, too. I know that at some point, our journey, successful or not, will be over, and Eustace and I will have to separate. I feel real bad we had such a bad fight. I reach out and pat him on the back nicely.
“It didn’t hurt,” he says. “When you punched me. I hardly felt it.”
I can’t decide if I should be mad about that comment or not. I decide not to, even though it does sound like an insult to me. Eustace is my friend, and sometimes you have to forgive and forget.
“My ears are still ringing,” I say. “You didn’t have to hit me so hard.”
“I didn’t mean to,” says Eustace. “Sometimes I just get tired of you, Hallelujah Wonder.”
I didn’t really ever know before that Eustace could get so mad. I guess it’s good for me to know.
“Well,” I say. “I concede that I may have been a little bit bumptious and a know-it-all at times. But that was too hard a hit you did on my head. Especially if my hit didn’t even hurt you.”
“It hurt a little,” he says. “I lied before. I am sorry about that.”
I worry that I may be leading Eustace to all kinds of bad behaviors, shouting, hitting, and lying, to name a few. I commit to being a better friend for the rest of this journey. Because at the end of all this, I’ll have to go back to Kansas to be with my family and Ruby. Eustace won’t be able to come.
I don’t want to think about that now. It makes me too sad. It’s difficult losing people, even when you’re losing them to a good life. I intend to make sure that my remaining time with Eustace puts him in the best position to live his happiest life. I can do that. And I hope one day he’ll say, “That Hallelujah Wonder was a good and true friend.”
CHAPTER 22
The port is abuzz with activity and shouting. Men haul huge barrels up ramps onto the decks of enormous ships. Sea captains stand on the decks and yell down for more fresh water, more flour, more oil, all the supplies they’ll need to be at sea for the duration of the whale hunt. Women bustle around selling dried fish from baskets. Children tag along behind them with the fish heads, which they sell for practically nothing. No one gives my Medicine Head’s crate a second glance, so I walk a little easier.
Eustace finds a girl who is selling fish heads, and he gives her a coin for three. He offers me one. The fish head was silver but has been smoked to a coppery color. If it weren’t for the blackened eyes, it might look appetizing, I suppose. “No, thanks,” I say.
He gives one to Fob, who swallows it in one gulp. Then Eustace chews on his own fish head and eats the eyes and all. He’s about to start on the other one, too, but instead he reaches it toward me.
“You sure you don’t want some?” His breath is horrible.
“It’s all yours.” I look
around for something I could buy to eat. In this part of New Bedford, the peddlers sell lots and lots of trinkets from all over the world, items the whalers have brought back from their travels. One stall sells monkey paws. One sells something called tiger serum. Another hawker sells scrimshaw, which is whalebone and whale teeth carved and stenciled with dramatic scenes. One peddler has an entire row of shrunken heads, ones much smaller than mine. I walk past them and clutch my crate close.
Then I buy a biscuit and a shriveled old orange.
Eustace smacks his lips and wipes them with the back of his hand. “Are you going to eat the rind?” he wants to know.
“No,” I say.
“Can I have it?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He slides the pieces of rind into his mouth. His stomach must be made of stone. He will eat anything, like I already said.
We continue along the seaside. There’s a group of men sitting under the shade of a sail they’ve set up as a makeshift tent. They are sharpening long lances. They are harpooners, a fearsome passel of tattooed men, the most respected men on board a whaling ship.
We come alongside a ship where men are rolling huge barrels down a ramp and onto the dock, where they line them up.
“Those barrels look just like the one you have in your barn,” Eustace says. At least his breath smells better now, like orange instead of fish eye.
“Whale oil,” I say. “Spermaceti. Practically the whole world is lit by it. You couldn’t see a thing after dark if it weren’t for whalers.”
“People in Kansas can see, and they don’t use whale oil,” Eustace says. He rubs his stomach like he’s real satisfied with his meal.
“Well, they can’t see as well as the people in New Bedford can,” I say. Even as I say that, I know it’s not entirely true. Before the fires started, I remember many Kansas nights when the moon was full and glowing like nothing man could make. Beautiful was what it was. Just a tiny bit, I miss dumb old Kansas when I think about it.
“I heard that some people were testing to see if pig oil would work as good as whale oil,” Eustace says.
“They were probably from Kansas,” I say. “Without even testing it for myself, I can tell you right now that pig oil doesn’t compare favorably to whale oil, so don’t buy it if someone tries to sell you some.”
“I don’t know,” says Eustace. “Pigs got a lot of good qualities. How do you know their oil won’t light as good as whales’?”
“I just do, all right?” I say. I know I said I was going to try to be a better friend, but sometimes Eustace really wears on my patience.
Up and down the port, dozens of ships with masts spiking the sky cast grave shadows on the docks and the people who work there. Some of the ships are small fishing boats that stay close to the shore. Some are enormous and house more than a hundred men. Some are new, with fresh paint and sharp white sails.
We’re walking side-by-side, Eustace and me, with Fob trailing behind us. Our eyes are up and sky-wise, studying all those rippling sails, when someone steps in front of me. A woman dressed all in black, with a black bonnet and a black veil over her entire face, grabs my arm.
“Hey,” I say. I try to pull away from her, but she holds on tight. Her long nails dig into my muscle.
“It’s not proper,” she sputters. She talks as though she doesn’t have any teeth in her mouth. “A disgrace.”
“Let go of me,” I say.
“Why are you dressed up like a boy?” she says. She points a short, fat finger at Eustace. “Is this Negro boy bothering you?” She stands so close to me that she breathes into my nose. Her breath smells like the dead snake from Kansas.
“Pew!” I say. “What do you want?” I gulp and try not to inhale.
She won’t let me go. “You come with me, child,” she says. She’s small, but she’s awfully strong.
I yank my arm out of her grip.
“I’m getting the constable.” She loosens the strings of a small pouch she has dangling from her arm. “Don’t you move, Negro boy,” she says to Eustace. “Walking in broad daylight with a white child. Shame on you.”
Eustace droops his shoulders and hangs his head.
The lady pulls a whistle from her pouch. She’s muttering things like “I know a runaway when I see one” and “Nice reward on this one.” She lifts her veil and puts the whistle between her lips.
Quick as a lick, I reach forward and wrench that whistle from her mouth. I draw my arm far back and launch the whistle toward the ocean. It soars above all the people and flutters like a glittering fish breaching the water.
The lady croaks “No!” and opens her mouth in what will be a scream. I shove her hard in the chest and she falls back into a cart full of sausages.
“Run, Eustace!” I shout at him. He straightens his back up and shuffles along as though he’s not sure if he should run or not. “Go!” I yell. He goes.
Then I lean over the lady in black. I shake my finger in her face. “Shame on you!” I yell. I spin on my heels and dash away from her. People in the lane stop what they’re doing and tell me to watch out and slow down because it’s slippery. I don’t listen. I keep running.
I catch up to Eustace and Fob, who are standing in the shadow between two buildings. I reach for Eustace’s hand and pull him out of the dark.
“Let’s go, Eustace.” I slap my thigh. “Come on, Fob.”
They come, but Eustace has a hang-dog posture. I try to think of something good to say to him, but nothing comes out. Instead I reach up and put my arm around him. I squeeze his shoulder.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hay is for horses,” he says as quietly as possible.
“You know what today is?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I fumble around in my satchel until I feel what I need. Then I pull out my closed fist and put it in front of Eustace’s nose.
“Happy birthday,” I say. I open my hand and reveal the beautiful thunder egg.
Eustace gasps. “Huh?” he says. Then he smiles, and I can see that his eyes are getting watery.
“Take it,” I say. I push it toward him again. “Go on.”
Eustace lifts his hand slowly and takes hold of the thunder egg. He rubs his thumb over its surface. Then he lifts it to his face and places the smooth part against his cheek.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me,” he says. “Thank you.”
We keep going, and very slowly, Eustace stands up a little taller. He’s deep in his Eustace thoughts. He rubs his chin.
“We could cut your hair,” he says.
I touch my bun, full of hair that is dry and scratchy. “What for?”
“Make you look like a boy,” says Eustace. “We stand out. Me and a white girl. You’d probably have a better chance at getting on a ship, too.”
I look at him, skeptical. “I don’t think so,” I say. “Nah.”
Eustace purses his lips. “Even if this Captain Abbot remembers your father,” he says, “he’s not going to want to take a girl on a long whaling expedition. We’ll have better luck if he thinks you’re a boy. You could say you’re Captain Wonder’s son.”
I’m mad that so many people think boys are better than girls. But I also don’t want to do anything that would make it more difficult to finish this journey. One thing about me is that I’ve never been fussy about girl stuff—dresses, hair, and whatnot. So I don’t even mind about my hair having to get cut. It’s dishwater color and coarse and has never meant much to me anyway. Lots of times, my hair has felt like a big cocklebur patch. I usually batch it all up in a ball, tie a string around it, poke in some hairpins, and move on with my day.
“Fine,” I say. We find a grimy alley to duck into. I sit down on a barrel. Eustace picks up a swath of my hair and inspects it. Then he pulls a pocket-knife from a little pouch he has tied to his belt. The only other things I’ve ever seen him pull out of there are seeds, nuts, and random edibles he’s found on the ground.
&nbs
p; I sit down, and Eustace picks up chunks of my hair and chops them off.
“Are you sure that’s the way you’re supposed to do it?” I ask. “Doesn’t it seem like you should take a more scientific approach to cutting it? Maybe you should take some measurements or something?”
Long strands of hair fall into my lap and all around me. I know some girls would get real sad about their hair coming off like this. Not me. All I feel is free.
When he finishes, I turn my head from side to side and feel air on my neck. My head feels lighter, and I think there’s one more reason it’s easier to be a boy in this world. If boys only knew how much weight was on a girl’s head, understood how tightly the buns yank their temples and how the prickly pins stick their scalps, then they’d see why girls sometimes get disagreeable.
“Perfect,” he says. “You look a lot like Captain Wonder, I mean. I can’t believe it. You look just like a younger version of your father.”
I’m certain he is overstating it, but I get filled up with pride.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Come on.”
The port is huge, with wooden walks running up and down for at least a mile. The endless splashing of the sea water makes the dock slippery, and I think about holding on to Eustace so I don’t lose my footing. But I don’t, mostly because I’m afraid it will give me away as a girl. I hope I can soon walk on solid ground again. Little shops bustle with activity, selling boots, coats, tobacco, ropes, rat-traps, liquor, hair-brushes, tattooing tools, flour, knives, whips, shackles, and handkerchiefs.
Behind them, on an upper street, sit the homes of the ships’ captains. They are big and beautiful, with large windows facing the ocean so that the wives and children can look out and see the ships coming into port. I used to live in a house up there, but it’s been so long and things have changed so much that I don’t recognize my own house. I remember that it was yellow, but I don’t see a yellow house.
Wonder at the Edge of the World Page 14