“Hold off, Jimson!” Mr. Beasley barked. He pulled on the lever. The aerocopter listed sideways and then straightened, but they were too close to the water. One wheel caught the surface of the lake, spraying water, tipping the machine perilously to one side. Lena slammed against the hot pipe of the boiler, shrieked, and landed hard on Jimson. Mrs. Mumbles tumbled in an undignified heap to the floor. The machine righted, jolted a few yards, and bounced to a grinding stop on the lake’s beach as Mr. Beasley firmly applied the brake lever.
Everyone was silent. Lena could hear Mr. Beasley breathing. A trickle of sweat had run down his face, causing one painted eyebrow to melt. Jimson carefully lifted Lena off his right hip and rubbed at the welt on the side of his face where it had smashed into the bench. “Are you all right?”
“I will be. It’s a good thing I’m wearing two layers of skirts. I didn’t get burned at all.”
With her tail curled in the air, Mrs. Mumbles yowled, shook herself indignantly, and began to preen. Then Merilee began to laugh, and once she started they all joined in. It was a relief to be alive, to have finally made it into the wilds of Scree.
LENA WAS THE FIRST TO STEP FROM THE COACH ONTO THE SOIL OF Scree. The ground at the edge of the lake was a fine gravel. A few lone pines, like point men from the northern forests, dotted the shore. The wind whipped at her hair, tearing it from its twist, and she staggered at the feel of solid ground beneath her feet. Even on the ground, she could still feel the sway of the aerocopter. Upon landing, one wheel had come loose, and the copter listed sideways. Other than that, the machine had performed admirably.
“We need to christen her!” Jimson said fondly, running a hand over her gleaming red paint. “It has to be something magnificent.”
“Well, then, I can’t think of it,” said Merilee. “I don’t know any magnificent names.” She scooped Mrs. Mumbles up in her arms and dropped from the door of the aerocopter to the ground. But the cat wriggled from her grasp and jumped to freedom as if she was eager for solid ground under her paws.
For a few minutes all was silent as they pondered an appropriate name.
“I’ve got it! Why not Aeolus, god of the winds?” Lena suggested.
Mr. Beasley removed his top hat and goggles as he ducked out through the coach door. “Thankfully there’s no damage inside. It’s unfortunate that we didn’t make it farther up the mountain. Aeolus it is, then! Welcome to the free land of Scree.”
“It smells the same, like I remember it, like pine and snow,” Merilee said. “Even in the summers here there was always a faint smell of snow.” She wrapped her thin arms across her chest. “My father always said it was the wind carrying the scent from the glaciers in the north. Whatever causes it, it smells like home.”
“We don’t have much light left, and I’d like to look the Aeolus over before we lose what little is left,” Mr. Beasley said. “But first there are a few things we must discuss. So gather round.” He drew a circle in the air with one arm; Lena, Jimson, and Merilee drew in closer. “Having broken the laws of our country and fled the consequences, we are now officially outlaws. That means we must be constantly on the alert. Already federal marshals and lawmen are looking for us. News spreads fast. Telegraph lines run as far north as the train.”
Jimson nodded. “I heard that, but we’re some hours in from the coast.”
“The Pony Express still carries news throughout the rest of Scree. There aren’t any telegraph lines in the interior yet. Any lead we have may be swallowed up in the night. Because Scree is technically still a free land, our laws should have no jurisdiction here. However”—and here he cocked his one eyebrow—“it is an occupied land, and lands that are occupied follow the laws of the occupiers. That means that if we are caught, we are subject to the laws of our own country. Be vigilant. Watch out for each other.”
“But—” Jimson interrupted.
Mr. Beasley held up one hand. “I have not quite finished. Scree presents its own problems. There is no infrastructure. Travel in winter can be difficult, and some say Scree is a lawless society. The people who have come here for quick profit are risk-takers and opportunists; many are used to living outside the law. Don’t give your trust too easily. I have taken some precautions for all of us.” He unlatched one of the leather trunks secured to the Aeolus. Reaching inside, he removed a rifle, which he held aloft. “The Girandoni! A forty-six caliber, twenty-two shot repeating air rifle! I got it from Meriwether Lewis. It was made by an Italian fellow, and the Austrians used these quite effectively against Napoleon.”
“It’s beautiful,” Jimson said breathlessly. “A real jimdandy.”
It was the longest gun Lena had ever seen. The butt was covered in black leather. An eagle with scrollwork was carved into a brass plate that ornamented one side, just above the barrel. The narrow barrel was overlaid with polished wood. If guns could be beautiful, she thought, this one was.
“The chamber holds twenty-two round balls, which are expelled by air pressure.” Mr. Beasley reached back into the trunk and removed a small hand-operated pump. “It takes fifteen hundred strokes to build up enough pressure in the gun so that it can fire forty times.” He flipped a latch to open the chamber and dropped in the small round balls. “Each time I press the lever, one ball drops into place in the chamber.” Then he removed the butt of the rifle. “This is where the pump attaches to the valve. I pumped it up before takeoff.” He handed the rifle to Jimson for inspection.
“Fifteen hundred strokes! That must have taken forever.” Merilee gave it an experimental pump.
“Between Milo and me it took thirty-four minutes exactly. But it gives us eight hundred pounds of pressure per square inch.” He looked at Lena and Merilee. “I want you each to understand how this rifle works. I’m planning on leaving it loaded tonight in the aerocopter in case it’s needed. Jimson and I will have the pistol.”
“I’ve never shot a gun before,” Lena said.
“Rifle,” Mr. Beasley corrected. “You’ll find that it’s heavy but accurate. The butt fits into your shoulder here.” He tapped the space below Lena’s collarbone.
“I did shoot a gun once,” said Merilee. “It was only a pistol. And when it went off, I closed my eyes.”
“Let me demonstrate.” Mr. Beasley reached for the rifle, and Jimson reluctantly handed it back.
“When you cock the hammer, it’s ready to fire. You always pull the hammer toward you. If you push it the other way, air escapes and—” A loud shriek pierced the air.
Lena covered her ears.
“So, always toward you,” Mr. Beasley continued. “Then you aim and pull the trigger.” He raised the gun, letting the butt nestle into the hollow of his shoulder.
Prepared this time, Lena again covered her ears with her hands while Mr. Beasley sighted down the length of the barrel and pulled the trigger. Bark and pine needles splintered from a tree limb some yards away. Surprisingly, the shot was not as loud as Lena expected—not nearly as loud as the high-pitched squeal when air was released from the rifle. And there was no puff of smoke or flash.
“We never used guns. We just stuck close with the other miners,” Merilee said. “And we never were out after dark if we could help it.”
Mr. Beasley nodded approval. “Very wise. But I believe that this rifle might just serve us well. Now, we should get busy cooking some food and setting up accommodations for the night. If we have a small fire before it gets completely dark, it will be less noticeable. Goodness, where has that cat gotten to? Here, kitty, kitty!”
Lena formed a strong impression that Mr. Beasley was trying to distract them from Merilee’s words. What would be the problem with being out at night? She looked at the giant pines and solemn boulders surrounding them. She was a city girl; she had never spent a night outdoors in the country before. Perhaps there were animals to be worried about. Mrs. Mumbles was not responding to his calls, but Mr. Beasley didn’t appear alarmed. He continued giving them directions.
“The water from
the lake is fresh. I suggest we boil that rather than use up our own supplies, and that we refill our own water tanks. Jimson, there is a small tent I would like you to set up. The ladies will be sleeping in the aerocopter; you and I should find the tent quite adequate.”
Merilee had helped her mother gather the provisions for the journey. Because they had left sooner than expected, only some of their supplies had been crated and brought on board the Aeolus. “If you slice and cook up some of them apples, Lena, I’ll cook up some cornmeal cakes. We’ve got some strips of dried venison from Milo that will be mighty tasty.”
Lena marveled at how competent Merilee was with cooking. Nana Crane had done all the cooking at home, and whenever Lena had tried to help in the kitchen, she had been shooed out from underfoot—much to her relief. Cooking had never interested her very much when there were books to read. Now she was all thumbs as she tried to cut up and roast the apple slices over the small fire.
Jimson managed to set up the small two-man tent and then joined Mr. Beasley in inspecting the Aeolus and the fuel supplies. Lena could feel rather than see Jimson’s glances as he busied himself with work. Whenever she looked up, he quickly averted his eyes.
There was something cheerful about a fire, even in the enormity of Scree. The sky turned a blue so deep and rich that it was almost painful to look at, and in the north the first faint star peered shyly down. For her first night as an outlaw, Lena felt uncommonly content.
“The food’s ready, such as it is.” Merilee’s cheeks glowed with the heat from the fire, and she wiped her hands on the folds of her skirt. “It looks like we’re without plates, but I guess it tastes just as good out of the pots.”
“Better,” Jimson said as he sniffed the apples and corn cakes.
A movement in the shadows caught Lena’s eye. She froze. A small, dark shape slunk into the firelight. “Mumbles!” The cat deposited her contribution to the evening meal—a fine big mouse that she dropped at Mr. Beasley’s feet. “Ah, Mumbles, resourceful as ever.” He scratched one ear, and she rumbled a purr in response, then settled down with the mouse between her paws.
Even though the night was chilly and they were forced to sit on the ground or rocks by the fire, it was a festive meal. Perhaps, Lena considered, being an outlaw wasn’t so bad after all. She tried to envision her mother or Nana Crane eating out of a communal pot by an open fire, but her imagination failed at the attempt. Perhaps it was her goblin blood that made it so easy to adapt to this new life.
Jimson gnawed on a strip of venison. “I wonder what type of mine your family owns. Gold? Silver?”
“I wonder too. I didn’t even know there was a family mine until I opened my father’s letter.”
“The majority of mines in Scree are coal or copper.” Mr. Beasley warmed his hands over the open flames and popped another apple slice in his mouth. “Of course, the opportunists hope that this will be another gold rush like the one they had in California. This is new territory; there could be anything in the mines.”
“But I thought your family had mines in Scree,” Lena said.
The deep blue was giving way to an inky darkness, and millions of stars freckled the sky.
“The Beasley fortune was made in the mines—coal mines. But it was before our government decided that Scree was terra nullius. My grandfather was a man of extraordinary vision, and he was restless to boot. So when he was exploring this vast Northern Province, he befriended some of the indigenous peoples and learned about their mining practices. My father continued with the mine. I developed other interests—medicine, exploration—and the mine was eventually sold. But not until my father had made a considerable fortune.”
The cold crept in with the dark. Merilee shivered as she scraped the remains from the pot. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was snow before morning.”
Mr. Beasley nodded and stood. “I believe it is time we retired for the evening. I’d like to get an early start, considering we’re on the run. And we need to put that fire out.”
Jimson used one foot to scrape dirt on the flames and then stomped out the remaining embers. Without the fire, the dark drew closer. The cold grew biting and Lena looked longingly at the coach. As she brushed dirt and twigs from the back of her skirt, the night was split by a long, lonely cry. The cry was taken up by another and then by another. Mrs. Mumbles, claws extended, leapt to her old perch on Mr. Beasley’s shoulders. He soothed her with a stroke.
“Wolves. We used to hear them most nights,” Merilee said.
Her words were casual, but Lena detected something in the pitch—the slightest inflection, a reverberation of fear. A sliver of ice caught in her chest. Again the cries came, ringing them on all sides. “Don’t we need fire to keep them back?” Lena’s question dropped into the dark.
“Wolves are not usually interested in attacking people, despite what the stories say. But Jimson, Mrs. Mumbles, and I will be keeping watch.” Mr. Beasley tickled the cat under her chin.
Once Lena and Merilee were inside the coach, the night eased back into itself. The close walls and the lingering warmth from the boiler conspired to keep threats at bay. Lena felt a twinge of guilt as she looked at the tent Jimson and Mr. Beasley would be sharing. She drew a wool blanket over her heavy shawl, shimmied the petticoat off from under her skirt, unlaced her boots, and curled up on one of the tufted benches. The plush fabric was soft against her cheek. She could hear Merilee settling in across from her.
“We’re safe here,” Lena sighed.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Wolves in Scree are different.”
“Different how?” Lena propped herself up on one arm.
“Well, for the first thing, they’re larger—almost the size of a pony. And they’re cunning. We heard stories, time and again, of wolves working together to steal livestock or people.”
“But Mr. Beasley said they don’t attack people.”
“These wolves do. We knew a family that had their daughter stolen by wolves, and an old man who worked the mines with us disappeared one night on his way home from a friend’s house. Both times there were wolf prints. Big as your hands, Lena.”
A cry rose, farther away this time.
“Wolves—they aren’t the worst of it. There are things in Scree people have no name for, ’least no name most people know.”
“You’re not talking about Peculiars?” The word stuck in Lena’s throat, and then it was out hanging in the air between them.
“’Course not. And don’t be afraid to say it. Scree is full of different folk, people like me. But there are others—drifters and bounty hunters. The bounty hunters are the worst. They’d kill you for a dollar and not think a thing of it. And then there are the ones no one really knows, people who lived here time out of mind.”
The ice sliver was back, dislodged this time, shivering its way through Lena. “If Scree’s so dire, why did you come back?”
Merilee snorted. “I didn’t have much choice. I need what Mr. Beasley can do. The operation’s still too fresh. The wings’ll come back without treatments.” Her disembodied voice sounded conspiratorial in the dark. “But that’s not the only reason. There are hundreds of people who need doctoring in Scree. Peculiars who work the mines don’t have anyone to care for them. I know a little about nursing sick folk, and thought I could learn some things more from Mr. Beasley. I’ll stay and help them some.”
Lena heard Merilee rustling as she struggled to find a comfortable position. In the distance the wolf cries rose again. Lena tried to scrape Merilee’s description from her mind.
“And what about you, Lena? Why’d you come north in the first place?”
The boiler ticked as it cooled. Lena drew her legs up to her chest to conserve the warmth. “For an adventure, I guess. To find the mine my father left me.” Even in the dark, she couldn’t be as open as Merilee; there were some things better left unsaid.
“I thought you might mean to find out if you’re like me—half Peculiar.”
“Your fat
her wasn’t a Peculiar, was he?” The word kept sticking in her throat, left a sour taste in her mouth. “How then were the wings passed on?”
“No, he wasn’t. But he loved us just the same. He didn’t have to go to Scree with us when we were sent, but he did. Did your father get sent away?”
Lena felt like a piece of fruit, each question peeling part of her away, exposing more of the apple-white flesh beneath. “No. He left because he wanted to.” It was the first time she had spoken that truth out loud. “He said that he had no talent for normal life.”
Merilee was silent for some time, but Lena could hear her breathing on the other side of the coach. “I’m sorry for that. Maybe you’ll find him up here. Maybe there’s some reason he left, that he didn’t tell you.”
“I don’t think so. I think he just grew tired of us.”
SOMETHING REELED LENA IN FROM HER DREAMS. SHE SAT UP, aware of a stiffness in her neck and of moonlight on snow. Merilee had been right. A thin white blanket now stretched across the rocky soil. The world was eerily silent, the drone of the wind gone, and into that silence came a faint noise—a snuffling, a slathering that made Lena’s heart grow cold. She parted the curtain. In the distance the silhouette of a large beast loomed black against the snow. It was the wolf of nightmares or fairy tales, twice as large as any wolf should be. But the snuffling and pawing came from somewhere closer.
“Merilee!” There was no response from the seat across from Lena. She raised her voice. “Merilee, wake up!”
A rustling and murmuring in the darkness.
“The wolves are here!”
“Where?” Merilee’s voice was alert now.
“I can see one in the distance, and I hear one right outside.”
“Right outside?” Merilee’s voice was rising with panic.
As her words hung in the air, a howl rose like a summons.
Through the window Lena saw a great wolf no more than a foot from the Aeolus. The creature’s muzzle was pointed skyward. On the far edge of the clearing, three more wolves trotted into view. And as the howl continued, the wolves began to run, bounding across the vast expanse of white toward the Aeolus and the small tent pitched just yards away. Frozen with fear, Lena watched their progression. The flap of the tent lifted. Jimson’s tousled head protruded, followed by Mr. Beasley’s, a striped stocking cap pulled over his bald head.
The Peculiars Page 18