Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell (27 page)

The bear sneezed again. Sitting back on his haunches, he surveyed the wreckage, shaking his head and sneezing a third time.

The savage woman shrugged. She spoke to the bear then, shouting at the animal in some foreign language. The bear sneezed again, then turned away from the scattered clothes. With a glance at the women in the tree, he shambled away.

“What did you say to him?” Helen asked. “What language was that?”

“I told him that there was a fine rotten log at the bottom of the hill, filled with fat grubs. I told him it was time for him to go.” The woman grinned. “But he was going anyway. He did not like that smell.” She wrinkled her nose—clearly she did not much care for it either.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Miss Paxon said. “Let me introduce myself. I am Miss Paxon, and this is my assistant, Miss Harris. We are on our way to Selby Flat, and I fear we have lost our way. Perhaps you could assist us?”

“There’s a circus in the valley,” Sarah said. “They are going to Selby Flat. I will take you to them.”

Miss Paxon and Helen clambered down from the tree. Miss Paxon shook Sarah’s hand and asked Sarah’s name. She squatted down to greet Beka, allowing the wolf to sniff her face thoroughly. The wolf sniffed at Helen’s skirts in an unseemly fashion.

Sarah found their mule—the beast hadn’t gone far—while Helen and Miss Paxon gathered the things that the bear had scattered. The moon was rising, providing enough light to cast shadows, but not enough to reassure Helen that the shadows were harmless. As she repacked the saddlebags, Helen kept a nervous watch on the shadows around her. Sarah and Miss Paxon both seemed quite confident that the bear would not return, but Helen was not so sure.

Finally, the mule was loaded, and they were ready to go. Sarah told the women to follow her and started down the hillside. Miss Paxon led the mule and seemed as confident in her footing as that surefooted beast. But Helen was quite the opposite. After a bit, Sarah let Miss Paxon go ahead, leading the mule. Sarah waited for Helen to catch up.

Sarah was amazed at how slowly Helen traveled. Though the hillside was not terribly steep, and they were following a deer trail that seemed quite wide to Sarah, Helen kept slipping and almost falling. Twice, she started to blunder off the trail, though the way seemed quite clear to Sarah.

Sarah could read fear in the way Helen moved; she held herself stiffly and jerked nervously whenever her dress caught on a branch. She peered nervously at every shadow.

“Come,” Sarah said, when Helen finally reached the place where she stood. The woman stopped, obviously startled. She had been watching her feet so carefully that she had not noticed Sarah standing there.

Helen stared at Sarah with wide, frightened eyes. “I keep slipping,” she said. “I know I’m going to fall.”

“Here, I will help.” Sarah held out her hand and led the woman along the trail, walking slowly and showing the woman where to put her feet. Helen clutched Sarah’s hand, clinging for dear life.

“Your shoes are not good,” Sarah told Helen after observing how they slipped on smooth places in the trail.

“I’m sorry,” Helen said. She was still frightened. In the moonlight, Sarah saw tears glistening in her eyes.

Sarah frowned. “You are sorry for your shoes?” she asked.

“I’m sorry I’m so slow.”

Sarah shrugged. “You will get faster.” She studied the woman’s posture. “Do not walk like this,” she said, imitating Helen’s walk—stiff-legged, back ramrod straight. “Go like this.” Sarah relaxed, letting her legs bend so that it was easy to recover from slipping.

Helen giggled nervously. “Aunt Bridget always stressed good posture,” she said.

“Who is Aunt Bridget?”

“My aunt. She is very strict.” Sarah frowned. “She is not here.”

“You’re right. She’s not.” Helen smiled, relaxing a little. “She’d have nothing good to say if she were. She wouldn’t approve of all this. Climbing trees, chasing bears, gallivanting about in the middle of the night.”

Sarah studied Helen’s face. “I do not think I would like Aunt Bridget.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t like her at all. And she wouldn’t approve of you.”

“You do not like Aunt Bridget,” Sarah observed.

“Well, I owe her so much.” Helen began. Sarah could tell from her tone that she was going to continue. People, Sarah thought, often talked too much.

“But you do not like her,” Sarah interrupted before Helen could go on. She studied Helen’s face, reading the truth of the matter there. “And she does not approve of you.”

Helen laughed suddenly. “You’re right. She would be appalled by all this.”

“Then why do you care about good posture?” Sarah pronounced the last word carefully, not knowing what it meant, but knowing that it was one reason that Helen could not relax and walk down the hill.

Helen laughed again. “I don’t.”

“Good. Then follow me.”

Helen followed, walking more easily. She started to fall, and rather than stiffening up, she bent her legs and recovered.

“Much better,” Sarah said. Helen’s grip on Sarah’s hand had eased; she was beginning to relax.

“I can see a campfire,” Miss Paxon called from the hillside below.

“Not far now,” Sarah said to Helen.

“It’s not so bad,” Helen said. When they reached the meadow, she was smiling, still holding Sarah’s hand. “Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I could not have done it without you.”

Helen could see the light of a distant campfire, flickering through the trees. As Sarah led her across the meadow, Helen saw a bulky shadow move out of the trees and loom closer, following them. She shrieked. “Oh, my goodness!” she cried, her confidence evaporating. “What is it?”

“It is Ruby,” Sarah said. “Professor Serunca’s elephant.”

Helen gaped in amazement as the elephant approached, flapping its ears and lifting its trunk in a salute.

“Professor Serunca!” Miss Paxon exclaimed. “How wonderful!”

“Who’s that?” shouted a voice from the campfire.

“Hello, Professor,” Miss Paxon called. “It’s Gitana. With my

traveling companion, Helen Harris.”

The Professor stood at the edge of camp, holding a flaming brand from the fire. When he saw the three women, he hurried toward them, beaming when the torchlight fell on Miss Paxon.

“Gitana,” the Professor called. “How wonderful to see you again!”

Helen watched in amazement as Professor Serunca greeted Miss Paxon in the European style, kissing both cheeks. Miss Paxon glanced at Helen and smiled. “The Professor and I were students of the same guru in India. And we have worked together, every now and then.”

“Come and sit by the fire,” the Professor said. “You must tell me what you’ve been up to since I saw you last.”

Helen sat on a fallen log beside Cassidy, listening to Miss Paxon tell of their experiences in California and the Professor recount the travels of his company to date. Sarah and Beka stood at the edge of the circle of firelight, just behind her.

“This is a fine bit of luck,” the Professor said. “You can come with us to Selby Flat, where we will search for Sarah’s friend Max. I am quite confident that we will find him.”

Sarah sat by the fire, studying their faces in the firelight. Everyone was smiling, happy to be together. The large black poodle leaned against her leg. Snowflake slept in her lap. Helen sat close at her side, glancing at her every now and then, as if for reassurance.

The Professor’s confidence was quite persuasive. At that moment, it all seemed quite easy. They would go to Selby Flat. They would find Max. And all would be well.

“She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.”

—
Following the Equator
; Mark Twain

M
AX SET ON A WOODEN CRATE
, idly sketching the steamship
Discovery
as it chugged slowly toward the dock. For the past two months, he had been at the dock each day that a steamship was due.

He had become a fixture there, known to the longshoremen and the sailors. Just then, he was putting the finishing touches on a panoramic sketch of the derelict ships that filled the harbor, long since abandoned by their crews. Some of them had been converted into floating warehouses, serving as storage for shopkeepers on shore. From where Max sat, he could see the masts of ships that had been run aground and converted to terrestrial use: He had visited a bar in a steamship’s belly, a gambling house in an old clipper ship.

It was late June. In March, as he was waiting in Selby Flat for the snows to melt in the high country, he had received a letter from Audrey North.

I have received word that my husband’s ship has been lost with all hands. I am a widow now. It is so strange. I loved my husband, but sometimes I felt that I loved the memory of my husband, not the man who returned to this house so rarely, at such great intervals. That man was a stranger to me—a beloved stranger, but a stranger still.

I am grieving, but at the same time, I feel strangely liberated. I am dressed in black, as befits a widow. But I confess that I feel lighter now, as if my husband had been a weight that was dragging me down.

Over the protests of friends and family, I have decided to sell my house in New Bedford and come to California. I will purchase a ticket on a steamship to Panama. I have heard that the journey across the isthmus is not as difficult now as it once was. But that does not matter. Whatever the danger, I am ready for it. Look for me in the spring.

He had hurried to San Francisco to look for her arrival. There, he had waited, fretting that he could not be in the mountains, unable to send a message to Sarah, chafing to be gone, but unwilling to abandon Audrey North to make her way alone.

Each time he met a ship, he inquired of the passengers if they had met Mrs. Audrey North, if they knew her whereabouts. Two days before, a matronly woman, escorting her brood of youngsters ashore, had told him that Mrs. North had been in Panama when she left. “She booked passage on the
Discovery
,” the woman assured him. “God willing, she’ll be here soon.”

The winds that slowed northbound ships were unseasonably strong, he had learned from the sailors. Storms at sea had swamped more than one ship, had delayed others.

“There she is!” cried Tom Jacobs. Jacobs, like Max, had been meeting all the ships for the past month. He was waiting for his wife, whom he hadn’t seen in three years. Jacobs bounced on his heels, so excited he couldn’t stand still. “With luck, your friend will be aboard, too.”

When Jacobs had asked Max who he was waiting for, Max had hesitated. “A friend,” he had said, after a pause. He didn’t know how to describe his relationship to Audrey North. For more than a decade, they had been corresponding with each other. Over that time they had exchanged views on any number of subjects. Sometimes, those exchanges had been heated.

He was looking forward to meeting Audrey with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. He had enjoyed corresponding with the woman—with her comfortably far away and no danger that they would ever meet. He was a lonely man, and she had been, in so many ways, the perfect audience for his writings. She had been quite supportive and kind, finding him a publisher, offering words of encouragement.

But he had had so little experience with women over the past decade and a half. He had always been in the company of men, and the thought of meeting a lady made him nervous.

Since he had received the letter saying that she was on her way, he had been trying to imagine meeting Audrey in person. He had no idea what she looked like. A formidable woman, he thought. Broadly built, with a no-nonsense demeanor. She would, he thought, be somewhat reserved. Very respectable, of course.

The steamship was making slow progress. It was surrounded by smaller boats. Agents for the auction houses, eager to know what cargo the
Discovery
carried, had hurried out to bid for scarce items, hoping to purchase the merchandise before the ship even touched ground. Men from some of the city’s larger employers were asking whether there were passengers with specific skills: cooks or carpenters or blacksmiths or clerks. One-man ferries, for the traveler in a hurry, met the ship and offered to carry passengers quickly to shore for a mere three dollars. After four months at sea, there were always a few passengers who were willing to pay that extravagant tariff to abandon ship just a few hours sooner than they otherwise would.

Max put away his notebook and left his seat on the crate to join the crowd at the edge of the dock. “There she is!” Jacobs shouted. He waved frantically. “There’s my Nancy.” A thin blond woman in a calico dress waved back.

Max stared at the passengers who crowded the steamship’s railing, scanning their faces. The great throng of weary-looking men, women, and children, Max guessed, had traveled by steerage. Max knew from talking to miners who had come west by steamer that steerage passengers were crowded into a single large compartment in the hull of the ship, sleeping in tiers of berths with no privacy to speak of. It was a beastly, uncomfortable way to travel, particularly in the tropics, where the heat made the sleeping quarters unbearable.

The second-class passengers had it better. Their sleeping chambers held a dozen or more berths, but they usually had portholes, and the passengers ate the same meals as the first-class passengers.

The first-class passengers had small, private cabins, each with two to four berths, a washstand, and a mirror. By the standards of steamships, first-class passengers traveled in luxury.

Nancy, the miner’s wife, was among the second-class passengers, a crowd of respectable-looking men and women—shopkeepers, farmers, tradesmen, and the like, by the look of them. One woman stood alone, staring toward the shore. She wore a gray dress of a severe cut. He could not see her hair—it was tucked under a hat. She was frowning at the shore, looking decidedly stern.

Could that be Audrey, he wondered. He could see no other likely candidate. Tentatively, he lifted a hand to wave at her, but she did not wave back. “Mrs. North!” he called, but his voice was lost in the shouting of sailors and longshoremen, the creaking of the dock, and the splash of the waves.