Near one stall he sees a boy and a girl his age talking. Their bodies are angled expectantly toward each other, and when he looks back after a moment, he sees them kissing and then laughing shyly. The boy’s fingers touch hers.
Will hurries on. Where is Maren? It’s such a different world from the perfumed hush of the first-class carriages. A dozen different languages graze his ears. He realizes he loves this. He passes a stall with a modest scattering of items: a rusty bottle opener, a compass with a cracked face, a few Native arrowheads—and a pair of spectacles with cloth for lenses.
“What are these for?” he can’t help asking. Will only now notices that the man’s eyes are milky with cataracts. His gaze goes right through him. And yet the man seems to know exactly what Will is talking about.
“Those are for the muskeg,” is all he says.
Will feels the same chill he did last night when Mr. Dorian uttered the mysterious word. What he knows about the muskeg is this: It was nearly impossible to build tracks across it. Gravel and steel sank into the bog. An entire train disappeared once. His father told him stories of workers throwing themselves into the bog in despair, never to resurface.
“But what do they do?” Will asks, picking up the spectacles.
“Put them on.”
Will lifts them to his face. The cloth is very fine. He can still see, but only the outlines of things. The man before him is a pale shadow.
“Can you see my eyes?” the man asks.
“No.”
“That’s right. You don’t want to see the hag’s eyes.”
Startled, Will removes the glasses. “The hag?”
“She lives along the northern shores of Lake Superior. The tracks will take you right through. If her eyes meet yours, then it’s too late.”
“What happens?” Will asks.
“Oh, she’ll just give a nod. And then it don’t matter none if you look away, ’cause next time you look back, she’ll be a little closer.”
“I’ll be on a moving train, though,” Will says with a nervous laugh. “Can she chase after me on a broomstick?”
“She doesn’t need no broomstick. She travels with you.” The man grins, revealing stained stumps of teeth. “When you first see her, she’ll be standing just beside the tracks. But next time you see her, she’ll be sitting right beside you on the train.”
Gooseflesh erupts across Will’s neck.
“She’ll sit beside you, nice and calm, and you won’t be able to move or call out. Wouldn’t do you no good anyhow, because no one else can see her but you. And you’re helpless because you can’t move, and you can’t stop her when she leans in nice and slow and whispers in your ear.”
“What does she whisper?” Will asks, unaware that he is whispering himself.
“They say it’s different for everyone. But some people, after they’ve listened awhile, they get up and go between cars and throw themselves off. Sometimes they get run over by the wheels; sometimes they roll and land in the bog and get pulled down.”
“That’s quite a story,” says Will.
The man shrugs. Will buys the spectacles.
He walks on. The sun is out and it’s suddenly warm. He looks everywhere for Maren, even though he knows it’s probably hopeless. There are just too many people. He buys a fizzy apple drink from a vendor. It’s so refreshing, he has another.
Beside the tracks a man in brakeman’s overalls calls out:
“Five cents to run the deck of the Boundless, the best and longest train in the world!”
Atop two boxcars a pair of brakemen sprints back and forth along the running boards, jumping effortlessly over the gap.
Will wonders if the conductor knows this is going on, but it seems a different world down here, far beyond first class, where the colonist cars give way to freight.
“Who wants a try!” brays the man.
“I do,” Will hears himself say. He’s had no luck finding Maren so far, but maybe with a better view . . .
“Ah, the young fella wants to try. I’ll take that nickel, and up you go!”
Will grabs the ladder’s thin metal rungs and hauls himself up as swiftly and confidently as possible. A short, wiry brakeman with pouchy eyes helps him onto the roof.
Will likes being up high. He can see along the rooftop of the train in both directions. He figures he’s about four miles from the station by now, though he can’t even see it, nor any sign of the town. Forest embraces the track. His gaze sweeps the crowded shantytown, looking for Maren, without luck.
Wind moves his hair, and for a moment he imagines the train is moving, carrying him with it to the horizon.
“Ever walked a boxcar?” the brakeman asks with a pouchy-eyed smirk.
“Nope. But my father used to be a brakeman.”
“Was he now?” The fellow looks at Will’s clothes. “He done well for himself, ain’t he? Let’s see how you do! Do a walk.”
The running boards are no more than a foot wide, laid along the center of the roof. With the train at a standstill, it’s not hard to step smartly along them. There’s a bit of a crowd watching him now, but he tries not to look.
“Not bad,” says the brakeman. “Try running it now, in them fancy shoes of yours.”
This doesn’t go nearly as well. He loses his balance a couple of times and steps off the running boards onto the roof.
“Lad!” the brakeman calls from behind.
He turns sharply.
The fellow laughs. “Look ahead. Never turn your back to the track! First rule. A sudden curve can send you flying!”
Will nods sheepishly. He remembers his father telling him that. He can see a line of other people now, waiting their turns.
“You want to try a jump?” the brakeman asks.
Will looks at the gap. If his father could do it, he can do it.
He backs up, sucks air through his nose, and runs. Looking straight ahead, he jumps, sails across, and clatters down on the other side. The second brakeman is there to steady him.
Applause rises from the ground.
“You’ve got a knack, lad,” says the second brakeman. “The union’s always looking for new men!”
The crowd below laughs. Will blushes, but he’s proud, not embarrassed. He didn’t feel scared when he jumped. He wishes Maren could have seen him—not that it would be anything special to her. But still. He has one more look around for her before he climbs down.
Outside a canvas building men and women are lined up. Through the doorway Will glimpses a crowd perched on sawhorses, balancing tin plates of greasy food on their knees.
Will’s suddenly aware of people looking at him, and he supposes it’s his fancy clothes. He removes his jacket and slings it over one shoulder—tries to slouch a little as he walks.
Around a crude pen, cheering men are crouched, intently watching two roosters lash out at each other. Their claws are tipped with blades. The men trade paper money and coins, betting, urging the birds on. It makes Will feel a little sick, and he hurries away.
From a makeshift saloon come squalls of laughter and shouting. Two men emerge, squinting and swaying unsteadily. With surprise Will recognizes the portly guard from the funeral car and a brakeman in overalls. They seem the best of friends, slapping each other on the shoulders, rocking with laughter.
Will is nearing the far edges of the shantytown now, and still the Boundless’s freight cars go back and back along the track—several miles, Mr. Beecham said. He can’t even see the circus cars. He looks at his watch and is surprised at the time. He should be starting back soon.
Why didn’t she come to see the shantytown? To see him?
With a sigh he starts back, but he has to go to the bathroom. Looking around, he can’t see anywhere obvious, and he doesn’t want to go into the saloon. He’ll go in the woods.
Stepping
amongst the trees, he looks back over his shoulder to check if he can be seen—still lots of people milling about in plain view. He goes deeper, twigs crackling underfoot. The sounds of the shantytown begin to fade, and then suddenly disappear altogether, replaced by birdsong. Will makes sure to walk in a straight line so he doesn’t get lost.
The forest is amazingly noisy, all sorts of things snuffling in the undergrowth. Some sound quite large. From his pocket he takes the vial of sasquatch urine and pops off the cork. He puts a drop on his index finger and dabs himself behind his ears, as he’s seen his mother do with perfume. The smell is pungent. Better safe than sorry. He can wash it off before dinner.
Behind him he hears a grunt and turns in alarm. Half-hidden in the bushes is a man with his back turned, peeing against a tree. He’s muttering to himself, leaning against the trunk—more like clutching on to it for dear life. Then he steps back, drunkenly tries to hoist his trousers. He staggers, falls down chuckling, and takes two tries to get back on his feet. It’s the guard from the funeral car.
Will walks on a bit more and finds his own tree. He quickly relieves himself and then starts back to the tracks.
Amidst the greenery the silver keychain is easy to spot. Will bends to pick it up. It holds only a single key, unusually thick, with plenty of notches. At once he recognizes it as the key to the funeral car—same as his father’s. The guard must have dropped it. Will pockets it.
He is hurrying back toward the shantytown to catch up with the guard, when he hears a grumble off to his right. Likely the fellow has fallen down again. Will wonders if he should tell his father. The guard’s clearly unfit for his post. Will walks through the trees in the direction of the noise. Through the thick foliage he catches a glimpse of the guard’s jacket.
“You dropped your key!” Will calls, drawing it from his pocket as he steps into view.
The guard is pushed back against a tree, his eyes wide with surprise. A second man has an elbow against the guard’s throat and is pulling a knife from between his ribs. Will can’t tear his eyes from the knife, darkly wet. He feels like he’s been touched with something searingly cold.
The man with the knife turns. Will recognizes the busted-up nose—and the blue eyes that lock onto the key in Will’s outstretched hand.
Brogan runs at him. Will’s terror breaks free inside him, and he bolts into the forest. Blood pounds in his ears. He ducks beneath branches, his face whipped with twigs, his ankles crackling through shoots and shrubs. He runs and runs, deeper into the forest. When he finally dares look back, there’s no sign of Brogan.
Pain spiderwebs across his side, and he can’t run anymore. He slows down, looking all about, listening for footfalls over the noise of his own wheezing. Up ahead is a tree with branches low enough to grab. He drags himself up as high as he can. Hidden behind thick boughs, his breathing slows. His view is not good, but he can see around the tree for several yards.
He hears nothing. He waits. Shivering, he realizes it has become much colder, the sun almost sunk below the horizon. He checks his watch. The second hand keeps ticking, but his heart skips a beat.
It’s almost six o’clock.
He turns his head, straining for the noises of the shantytown, but he can’t make them out. He has no idea where he is. The wind has picked up and shushes through the branches, making one of the loneliest sounds he’s ever heard.
And then, a single long blast of a train’s whistle.
The Boundless is getting ready to leave the station.
He clambers down the tree, heedless of the noise he makes. He can’t be left alone here, night coming on—that knife coming out, slick. He hits the ground running, hoping he’s headed in the right direction. A second blast of the train’s whistle tells him he’s on course. He doesn’t care if Brogan hears him now. He needs to get back on that train.
But he didn’t realize how deeply he’d wandered into the woods. With mounting desperation he hurls himself through the thickets and undergrowth, waiting for the trees to thin, waiting for the sight of the Boundless on its tracks.
Above his heart’s roar he hears the slow, rhythmic thumping of cars moving along the rails. It’s leaving without him! He pushes himself hard, gasping. Some roots trip him up, and he hits the earth, one of his shoes flying off. No time to get it. Scarcely able to breathe, he runs on.
A growing brightness between the trees. His legs surge with strength. Beyond the trees, boxcars shuttle slowly past.
He breaks from the woods. There’s no sign of the platform, or the shantytown, for that matter. With increasing swiftness the freight cars trundle past, and behind them comes the caboose—the last car on the Boundless.
He pelts toward the tracks, toward the red caboose. Alongside now, he struggles to keep up. He sees the metal steps and the handrail of the platform and knows he has just one chance, for the train is gaining speed, and his is failing. Grabbing the handrail, he feels its cold hard pull. He loses his grip, takes it back. With all their strength his fingers clench.
Just before he’s dragged off his feet, he gives a leap and lands on the lowest step. His knees nearly buckle. Every one of the four steps is a hardship, and then he is on the metal platform and falling back against the railing, breathless and numb.
THE CABOOSE
* * *
Will has hardly taken three wheezing breaths when the red door of the caboose bursts open. All he registers is a pair of worn denim trousers, and then there’s a hand clenching his collar and hauling him to his feet. Will looks into the furious face of a young man in overalls.
“Not on my train!” the guard shouts, and with both hands he drags Will toward the platform’s edge.
Terrified, Will looks down at the ties flashing past. “No!” he gasps. “Wait!”
“You hopped on. You can hop off!”
“What’s this?” asks another fellow, appearing in the doorway. This one is an older Chinese man with silver hair and an unlined face. His left pant leg flaps loosely and ends with a peg.
“Stowaway,” says the younger fellow, and William feels the guard’s fists clench. His eyes are slightly too close together. This and his sharp-tipped mustache make his demeanor even angrier. “Giving him the heave-ho.”
“Wait a moment, Mackie,” says the other fellow. “He’s just a lad.”
Will can scarcely choke out the words: “Not a stowaway. Passenger.” And then after a few more gasps, “First class.”
Mackie scoffs, and Will glances down at his own clothing. His jacket is shredded, and his trousers are grimy and torn at one knee. He lost one of his shoes. He doesn’t look like a first-class passenger. He doesn’t look like any kind of passenger. Even the people from the colonist cars are better turned-out than he is.
“Where’s your ticket, then?” demands Mackie.
Will swallows. He didn’t even think to bring it with him—just assumed they’d know him when he reboarded.
“My name’s Everett!” he gulps. “William Everett! My father’s James Everett!”
“The general manager of the railway?” says the Chinese guard, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s just a hobo, Sticks!” Mackie retorts in exasperation.
“Those aren’t hobo clothes,” Sticks says, looking Will carefully up and down. “Just ripped and dirty.”
“He’s only got one shoe!” exclaims Mackie.
“But it’s a fine one,” replies Sticks with a trace of a smile.
“I lost the other in the woods,” Will murmurs.
“Stinks, too,” says Mackie. “He’s lived in them clothes a good long time.”
“It’s just sasquatch urine,” Will says.
Mackie frowns. “What?”
“To keep the animals away. I bought some at a stall.”
“The boy’s an idiot on top of everything,” says Mackie. “Everyone knows that stuff do
n’t work.”
All the frantic energy that fueled Will through the woods and to the train leaves him in an instant. He feels sick and cold. His limbs begin to shake.
“He’s gone pale,” says Sticks. “Bring him inside.”
Mackie lets out a bad-tempered breath but turns Will toward the door and gives him a shove.
“You’re likely chilled,” Sticks says, ushering Will into the caboose and toward the potbellied stove. “Sit there.”
Will jerkily lowers himself into a chair and watches as the guard scoops in a few lumps of coal. It’s hard to tell how old he is. He has kind eyes. A welcome warmth seeps from the stove, and William shivers. He didn’t realize how cold he’d gotten in the woods. He puts his feet as close to the cast iron as he dares, leaning forward with his hands.
There are several covered pots on the stove top, one of them simmering slightly. A delicious smell fills the caboose.
Sticks pours a mug of something and offers it to Will. “Hold this without spilling?”
Nodding, Will gratefully takes the mug in both hands. For a moment he just wants to feel its warmth against his fingers. When he lifts it to his mouth, he discovers it isn’t tea but some kind of wonderful broth. He drinks greedily.
Sticks takes a neatly folded blanket from a cot and drapes it over Will’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” Will says.
After a few minutes, as the soup’s warmth spreads through his belly, the shivering stops.
“You’re the caboose guard?” Will asks.
“I am. My name is Paul Chan.”
Will shakes his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Chan.” He glances over at the younger fellow, who’s slouched in a chair with his arms crossed suspiciously.