The Peculiars (32 page)

Merilee held out a small silver flask. “Here. Mr. Beasley said you’re to take a swig of his emergency brandy.”

Jimson took a long swallow, shuddered, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

He really did look quite dreadful, Lena thought, with one black eye swollen closed and the black stitches looking like a many-legged beetle on his face.

“Well done!” Mr. Beasley had returned with Mrs. Mumbles perched on one shoulder to examine the work. “It will give your face a bit of a story. Now, I suggest we wait out the worst of this weather. As soon as there is enough visibility, we move, but that won’t be until morning. No telling what the bounty hunters have planned. We’re about ten miles from the mine, according to the map.”

“Ten miles?” Lena could barely feel her feet.

Jimson nodded painfully as if he was following every word. “A storm’s good. The snow will cover our tracks.” But his words were slurred.

“I suggest we burn a little coal to keep us warm while we wait and that everyone rest if they can.”

Lena looked around the inside of the battered aerocopter. Already it was diminished in size. How would they all ever fit?

“I’ve brought the coach over as close as possible,” Mr. Beasley said, as if he’d heard Lena’s thoughts. “We should be able to share some of the heat between the two. Mrs. Fetiscue and Mrs. Fortinbras are already inside. I’ll get a fire started here and join them. Then try to sleep if you can.”

Merilee busied herself distributing apples and bread while Lena helped Mr. Beasley stoke the firebox. She draped a blanket across Jimson.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you like that,” Jimson said. “I didn’t want you to have to go through another experience with those bounty hunters. You don’t always think things through.” His eyes were unfocused. Lena pulled the blanket up to his chin. He had already fallen asleep before she could reply. His mouth hung open. A thin line of drool ran from his mouth to his chin. Green and blue bruises bloomed on his cheeks. Lena found herself almost feeling sorry for him.

She brushed the coal from her gloves, but they were hopelessly stained. Merilee had settled herself in the opposite corner from Jimson, leaning her head against the wall, eyes closed. There was nothing for Lena to do but wedge herself
in between. She tugged at the blanket on both sides. It was so cold that she could see her breath. Outside, the wind shrieked. Gradually, the warmth from the firebox seeped into the coach, but much of it dissipated quickly. She shifted positions, trying to keep herself erect. There was no way to get comfortable.

She tried to imagine the Mattacascar mine. She pictured her father there waiting for her. Then what would she do? Would he be as crazy as Abel Guthrie? She moved Jimson’s leg out of the way. And what about the rest of them? Once Jimson had his adventure, would he go back to Northerdam to work in his father’s store with Pansy? She tugged the blanket harder. At least he
could
return. But what about her? The run-in with the bounty hunters made it clear that someone with her characteristics would no longer be tolerated. Merilee began to snore. Lena pulled the blanket over her head and tried not to snuggle into the warmth of Jimson—after all, he was still an engaged man. If being a goblin meant feeling cantankerous toward the world around you, then her transformation had begun.

IT WAS COLD . . . SO VERY COLD. LENA BURROWED CLOSE TO
something warm on one side of her. From the other side, cold air rushed in, and a voice, a very annoying voice, was forcing itself on her consciousness.

“Get up. Mr. Beasley wants us to leave now while the snow will cover our tracks.”

Lena opened one eye. Merilee’s face was hanging over her own. She was holding the blanket back. Lena tried to snatch it from her hand. The one warm side of her body was pressed against Jimson, who was starting to shift into wakefulness. His face looked even worse this morning, if that was possible, Lena thought. She sat up fast, glaring at Merilee and brushing the hair out of her face. She felt wretched. Her neck was cricked, her mouth felt as if it had been filled with paste, and it wasn’t even light outside yet.

“What’s all this about?” Jimson’s good eye popped open.

“We’re going to start off as soon as possible. The snow’s not so heavy now, and we need to leave while it will cover our trail in case the bounty hunters come back.” Merilee handed Lena a tin cup. The water was cold. “Mrs. Fetiscue and Mrs. Fortinbras are up and almost ready to go.”

“Are they now?” Jimson touched his purpled face tenderly and winced when he tried to whistle. He managed a single note repeatedly.

It was the most annoying sound Lena could imagine hearing so early in the morning.

So it was in that undecided time—not still night but not yet morning—when they set out. Mr. Beasley insisted that the missionary ladies sit together on Medrat’s broad back. Since neither lady had ever been on a horse before, there was a great deal of slipping, sliding, and praying for mercy.

“We’ll change off riders periodically,” said Mr. Beasley. “Mrs. Fetiscue, please stop pulling back on the reins. It tells Medrat to stop when we actually want him to go forward. I’ll be leading him. You’re perfectly safe.”

“I’ve filled the packs with food.” Merilee shrugged a knapsack onto her back and handed one to each of her companions.

“Remember that hypothermia is our enemy,” Mr. Beasley warned them. “There are about two feet of snow on the ground. We’ll move as quickly as we can through it and hope that more doesn’t fall, or even Medrat will have a hard time. We don’t know when the bounty hunters will return, but you
can be sure they will.” Raising his voice, for the benefit of the missionaries, he added, “And I fear it is thievery, not help, that they will bring. Our saving grace is that they have no idea where we’re headed.” With the compass in one hand and Medrat’s bridle in the other, he turned to look at Lena and Jimson. “Jimson, you bring up the rear. Lena, as soon as your feet cause you too much discomfort, we’ll put you on the horse.”

“What about Mrs. Mumbles?” Lena asked. “How will she manage with her injured leg?”

“For now she’ll be fine following in Medrat’s tracks. Remember, she’s a Scree-cat, at home in the snow. If the snow deepens, one of us will carry her.”

Lena gave a last look at the Aeolus. It was almost unbearable to leave her like that, listed to one side, her fine frame dented, the rotors bent and broken. Lena hunched her shoulders against the cold and silently thanked Nana Crane for the sturdy wool skirt and the wool shawl she wore over her traveling jacket. Her feet already complained, but she didn’t want to be a liability.

They trudged forward silently, Mrs. Mumbles bounding, despite her splinted leg, from hoofprint to hoofprint, while a fine white snow floated down as if a baker in the sky were sifting powdered sugar over a plain brown world.

Lena looked over her shoulder. Jimson lagged behind. She paused to let him catch up. “Is your face bothering you?”

“No, I think it’s your feet that let you go faster.”

“My feet?”

“They work like snowshoes. The more surface area, the easier it is to stay on the surface.”

Lena looked down at the length of her feet.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I wish mine were as long.” A red wash spread across his cheeks. “I’m making it worse, aren’t I? What I mean is—”

Lena cut him short. “I know exactly what you mean, Jimson Quiggley, and for once I don’t mind my feet at all.” She threw a handful of snow in his direction and for a minute it felt like old times before all the awkwardness of Pansy and the marshal.

She wondered if he had ever forgiven her for telling the marshal about Mr. Beasley’s work. She wouldn’t blame him if he hadn’t.

The trees were thicker here, spruce and pine soldiering next to each other on the uneven ground of the hillsides. They puffed up one hillside and slipped down another. Mrs. Mumbles took up her perch on Mr. Beasley’s shoulder. The snow had stopped, and their footprints were blue shadows in the snow, an easy trail to track. None of them had much energy to talk. Even Mrs. Fetiscue and Mrs. Fortinbras had stopped grumbling about being carried off on a runaway horse. Dawn touched the snow, turning it rose and then gold. Overhead two ravens clicked and cawed the sun up. It was a cold beauty unlike anything Lena had seen before.

“I believe it’s time to take a little nourishment.” Mr. Beasley lowered his knapsack to the ground. “We’ll change riders after we have a meal.”

The meal was better than Lena expected. Although there was nothing warm, there were apples and a good sharp cheese and Mrs. Pollet’s homemade bread. When they had finished, Mr. Beasley produced two bars of chocolate, which he carefully divided.

After the meal, he insisted that Merilee and Lena take a turn on the horse. Like the missionary ladies, Lena had never ridden a horse before. She clung to Merilee and wrapped her legs tightly around Medrat’s broad back. Merilee dozed, her head bobbing onto her chest, but Lena’s thoughts ran ahead, imagining the mine and her father and trying to decide what exactly she would say.

They stopped well before dark. They unloaded the shovel from Medrat’s pack and searched for a place where the snow had drifted against a ledge, deep enough to build two snow caves for the night. Mrs. Fortinbras and Mrs. Fetiscue would share the tent. While the others took turns digging, Mrs. Fetiscue built a small fire and produced a pouch of dried meat that she added to a pot of boiling water, along with a handful of potatoes.

“A missionary is always prepared. We didn’t venture out with nothing for the journey.”

“It smells wonderful,” Lena said as she crouched close
to the warmth of the fire. Mumbles rubbed herself against Lena’s leg and purred.

“Do they get extra cold, those long hands and feet of yours?” Mrs. Fetiscue was using a stripped stick to stir the pot.

“Well, they’re cold, but I don’t know if they’re colder than anyone else’s.” Lena stared into the fire rather than meet Mrs. Fetiscue’s curious gaze.

“I’ve always believed that regular folks—people like me, I mean—were created in the image of God, whether we know it or not. It must be horrible to be accused of being Peculiar. Peculiars have always seemed like a mistake—something gone wrong with the design, something not quite human.” She continued to stare at Lena’s feet. “But you can understand why the bounty hunters and the sheriff mistook you. I hope you don’t mind my speaking my mind like this.”

Lena bit her lip very hard, but still she couldn’t hold back the words. “How do you know what God’s design was? I
am
Peculiar. Maybe it’s people like you who are the mistake! Maybe God’s a Peculiar.”

“Why, that’s heresy! You’re lucky you don’t get struck dead on the spot.” Mrs. Fetiscue’s nostrils flared; her chin quivered. She backed away. “Do you mean to say we’ve been traveling with . . . with a Peculiar all along? That you’ve been lying to decent people?”

Now Lena couldn’t stop the words from rushing out. She leapt to her feet, startling Mrs. Mumbles. “What do my hands and feet have to do with who I am? I don’t know who I am.
But do you know who you are? Does anyone really? What makes a decent person? Does being the same as everyone else mean being better than other people or does it just make it easier to look down your nose at them?”

“The apple falls close to the tree, my dear. We can’t escape our genetics. A goat may want to be a sheep, but it’s a goat all the same.” Mrs. Fetiscue had regained her composure. She dipped a cup into the soup and took a noisy slurp. “Just about ready. You seem to have done remarkably well for yourself, even if you haven’t got a soul and even if that temper is a bit of a problem.”

Tears of rage blinded Lena’s eyes. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“Charles Darwin would say we all came from the same ancestors, but that some of our traits disappeared over time,” Jimson interjected. “I’d say that anyone who still has some of the old traits is a survivor.” His voice was calm and steady.

“Charles Darwin is a godless man,” replied Mrs. Fetiscue, straightening and fixing Jimson in her sights. “He has removed God from the universe.”

Now Lena watched Jimson’s eyes dilate in the firelight. “Darwin never says that. God may have created the laws that put natural selection in place. Any man of science knows that.”

“Are we having philosophy with our supper this evening?” Mr. Beasley looked from Lena’s pinched face to Jimson’s and then let his eyes settle on Mrs. Fetiscue’s rosy cheeks.

“The soup is ready, Mr. Beasley. I can see that you have your hands full managing these young people . . . Mrs. Fortinbras,
Merilee!” Mrs. Fetiscue wiped her hands on her skirt and began ladling out hot mugs of soup.

Lena found a rock to sit on just outside the circle of the fire. Night was creeping in. Mrs. Fetiscue’s words had reopened a wound she was trying her best to ignore. For the first time in many weeks she longed for her home in the City, longed to see her mother’s face frowning over a missed stitch or hear her voice reading from the newspaper. She even missed Nana Crane’s lectures. Merilee was laughing, telling a story about growing up in Scree. Mrs. Fortinbras and Mrs. Fetiscue thought she was a miner’s daughter. Because they couldn’t see the scars from her wings, they never suspected she was different.