Reckoning of Boston Jim (20 page)

He shoots the second bullet between its eyes, looks away up the road, to the two great rocks that seem now like the sides of a giant vice, looks to the birds that are already settling in the nearby pines, eyeing the carcass.

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The nearest roadhouse is owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Barrymore of Devon. They tell him, with little enthusiasm, that he is their first and likely only customer of the day. No wonder, Eugene thinks, what with only a small sign that points down a lengthy, rough path and no sign of life at the spartan building in the shadow of a barren hill. Only after several bangs did the door creak open to show Mrs. Barrymore, lantern-jawed, sun-browned, a blackish dress sagging on her frame. Not a young woman and never a beauty. Still, she is decades younger and far preferable to the white-haired Mr. Barrymore who is turtle-ish in his movements, laboured in his breath.

“Dinner will take some doing,” Mrs. Barrymore says without a hint of apology, and so Eugene tends to Ariadne, cleaning her scratches and feeding her tender shoots of grass found thriving 'round a stagnant pond. She presses her muzzle to his chest. Eugene wraps his arms 'round her neck and they stay in that attitude, propping each other up until the mosquitoes become bothersome and a chill breeze cuts through.

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Mr. Barrymore is at the table poking at a collection of feathers when Eugene returns. Eugene sits opposite him. Mrs. Barrymore stands rigid over the stove and throws bacon hissing into the pan. On the wall is a large portrait of the Queen in her mourning cap and widow's weeds. On the table, floor, shelves and window ledges are heaps of well-handled books. Framed in the kitchen window are two small and well-tended graves.

“Good you shot it,” Mrs. Barrymore says. “They're evil, those beasts.”

“Not evil, my dove, an animal cannot be evil,” Mr. Barrymore says without looking up.

“They're worse than evil. They're always biting their handlers and terrifying the horses and the mules because of their evil smells and evil ways.”

“One should blame Mr. Laumeister, my darling, not the camels themselves. He is the one who brought them here.”

Mrs. Barrymore hands Eugene a plate with crumbling biscuits, burnt bacon, a round of fraying meat.

“It's all we have. I hope you're not particular.”

“On the contrary, madam. It makes me feel quite at home.”

“That German, Lomister. He was the one who brought them here.”

“Mr. Laumeister, my dear, and he is an American.”

“That Lomister said they were stronger than mules or horses and they don't need water, just air.”

“No animal subsists upon air, my sweet, not forever.”

“On air, and people's shirts. They rip them right off your back.”

“Ah, so they are not wild?” Eugene asks.

“No, but Lomister's letting them full loose soon enough.”

“Laumiester!” Mr. Barrymore shouts. He hurls a feather, watches with dismay as it drifts leisurely to the floor.

Mrs. Barrymore smiles faintly at Eugene. “Don't trouble yourself, sir. We won't say a thing if Lomister comes asking around. Evil beasts. Evil god-forsaken country.”

She pours Eugene a coffee. Eugene looks hopefully to the door. The light is gone. A howling begins somewhere in the hills.

“Aha,
Canis latrans
, the coyote,” Mr. Barrymore says, looking greatly cheered.

A second howler joins then both cease abruptly as if embarrassed at beginning before moonrise. Mr. Barrymore's enthusiasm vanishes. He stares at his feathers. His harsh breathing fills the room.

“Madam, may I ask if you have any stronger refreshment? Claret? Brandy?”

“All I have is whiskey, if you're not too particular.”

Whiskey. Again. After Yale he had sworn to avoid it at all costs. But he needs bulwarking if he is to survive in this cesspit of despair.

Mrs. Barrymore fills his glass and sets the bottle before him. Eugene reiterates how the camels came charging at him like a herd of maddened bulls. “But I stood my ground, friends, and took down the leader with one shot between his eyes.”

Mrs. Barrymore pours a small measure in her own cup, mentioning that it helps with sleeplessness and ague, then says: “I wish you'd shot the evil lot of them.”

“I was fortunate that my mule was unharmed except for scratches from being entangled in the brambles. Still it took me several hours to coax her down from her hillside sanctuary. If she had been harmed I would have had to seek out this Lar, Lor, that German-American fellow and demand compensation. Yes.”

At this Mrs. Barrymore bursts into sobs and rushes out. The door creaks shut behind her. Eugene sits wide-eyed and certain that he is far too tired for any dramatics besides his own. “I offer my apologies, Mr. Barrymore, and my . . . my condolences for whatever is the cause of her distress. I hope I did not speak wrongly. I do at times. Indeed, I do.”

“They are from Bactria,” Mr. Barrymore says. “It is a country in the high reaches of Asia, and hence they are called
Camelus bactrianus ferus
. Of course, they do not subsist on air any more than we do, but they can manage for a year at a time without water. I have told Amelia this, but she forgets.”

“Quite so.”

“To our eye they appear ugly, but in the place where they belong, in their home. There, I suspect they are something quite remarkable to behold.”

“Indeed, I . . .”

“It did seem a good idea. Mr. Laumeister hoped to make a fortune, but their feet are too soft for the roads here, and the damp in some regions is enough to drive them to madness. But then one is often plagued with bad luck. The road is not built where one expects. The cattle do not arrive. The land does not thrive without great effort and much water brought by hand. One does what one can.”

Eugene murmurs his sympathy. Suggests the hour is getting late.

Mr. Barrymore lights a lamp. “May I show you my collection? Please, we so seldom have guests.”

“Your collection? Ah, the feathers. Lovely. A fine array.”

“No, the collection in the shed. Come, please.”

“Ah, perhaps I should look to my mule again. And I am exhausted. The adventure of the day, and . . .”

“It will only take a moment. It is a fine collection.” He grips the lamp and walks to the door. He is smaller even than Eugene had thought. Is slightly hunched, certainly forlorn.

Eugene fills his glass. Soon enough wishes he had taken up the entire bottle. Odour of half-cured hide, of something like vinegar, of something fetid, musty. The feeble light shows jars in which float snakes, fish, a chick, its great eyes closed and blue-veined, its claws at the glass.

Mr. Barrymore beckons Eugene along a narrow passage. The creatures could be out of a medieval bestiary; they are that crudely, that grotesquely stuffed. Their eyes are made of bits of bottle glass. Their hides bulge here and there as if possessed of cancerous growths, great boils.

“I realize they are not the finest examples of the art. I have been experimenting with a sort of plaster and with a frame of wood, to create the greater illusion of life, you see.”

Eugene swallows the last of the whiskey. “Splendid, now . . .”

Mr. Barrymore holds Eugene's arm. His grip is surprisingly tight. He leads Eugene to a squat creature the size of a large dog. Brown fur. Yellowish stripes from shoulder to tail. Lips pegged back with small nails. Great teeth. A heavy jaw. “
Gulo gulo
,” Mr. Barrymore says. “Or skunk bear. They are solitary animals that scavenge and hunt. They birth hanging upside down, like bats.”

“Are they numerous?” Eugene asks, affecting curiosity, affecting something other than a desire to run.

“I do not know. I am sorry. I have written many learned men on that question and others, but none have replied. It is difficult living here. Now this.” He stands beside a catlike beast. From the seams in its belly stuffing spills like guts long atrophied. Eugene peers closer. “Puma?”

Mr. Barrymore smiles. “Yes, you are absolutely right. A puma.
Felis concolor
. It is also called Indian Devil, Catamount, and Deer Tiger. It is the most fearsome of the cats about. Its young are born in winter storms and its scream is like a banshee. It is heard only in the night, however, and always at the time between waking and sleep, though why I do not know.”

“Quite so, and now, I . . .”

“And this . . .” and so it goes.
Felis lynx
, its paws as great as its head, its ears tufted so it may hear its mate's cry at a distance of three hundred leagues.
Erethizum dorstum
, the porcupine, and naturally the most difficult to stuff.
Marmota caligata
, the easiest, being no more than a walking ball. Mr. Barrymore imitates its piercing whistle. Eugene gives an idiot's smile. The spread-winged bird is
Falco peregrinus
, a bird that can live for weeks afloat in an updraft. A handful of red fur is
Tamiasciurus hudsonicus
, or a pine squirrel. A great skull is
Ursus arctos
, the largest and most vicious of bears.

Mr. Barrymore casts the light on a mess of brown feathers, smiles modestly. “I cannot identify this one, not at all. I am hoping that it will be named for me, its discoverer. It is not much, I know, but it would create a legacy of a kind.”

“Quite so. Did I not see the beaver? There, near the door.”

“Ah, yes, good eye, the mainstay of the Company of Gentleman Adventurers. Is it still called that?”

Eugene assures him it is.

“We value only its fur, but look at its tail, how remarkable. It is used for trowelling the plaster over its home, which can have as many rooms as ours.”

The moulting antler is
Rangifer tarandus
, the caribou. “The creature is most numerous where you are travelling; this is why the territory is named so. It breeds in the untold millions. The young are born near full grown and need no tending but bound off the very day they are born.”

“Would that children did as well,” Eugene says, attempting to lighten the mood.

Mr. Barrymore's hands stop in mid-gesture.

Eugene thinks of the graves in the yard, the black dress of Mrs. Barrymore. Inwardly curses. He might well have stepped into a Russian novel, what with these multiple, complicated names, the sense of certain tragedy.

Mr. Barrymore clears his throat. “And this is
Procyon lotor
, raccoon, or little bandit. Cleaner than most men, and wiser.”

Eugene stresses he must respond to the call of nature. Mr. Barrymore relents. They pass the graves. The moonlight shows them clearly enough, the whitewashed crosses, the white stone borders, the white flowers in earthen jars. Eugene quickens his step.

The door is ajar. A candle drips wax on the table. Mrs. Barrymore sits by the red mouth of the stove. The sight of her perplexes Eugene until he realizes she is engaged in nothing. No needlework, no knitting, no mending, no preparation of food. She is not even reading. Perhaps the woman is mad. Then Eugene smells the whiskey, notes that the bottle he left behind is empty. Not mad. Worse. The mad can entertain delusions, false hopes.

“Good night, my love,” Mr. Barrymore says.

She begins a tuneless humming.

“And good night, Mr. Hume. I hope you will be comfortable on the side bench there. Merely set aside the books, carefully, if you please. You will find a quilt in the trunk.”

“Thank you. And for the lecture as well. It was most informative. Indeed, I believe I will never forget it.”

Mr. Barrymore nods. “We have few visitors. So very few. Good night now.”

“Yes, good night, but, your wife. Is she? Does she?”

“Ah, she will come in time.” He shifts aside a curtain, disappears from sight.

Eugene spies another bottle. Helps himself and sits opposite Mrs. Barrymore. He notices she is wearing a large mourning brooch made of dark hair. It is poorly made, resembles a hairy spider more than an adornment. He looks to the portrait of the Queen, the wildflowers in a jar before it.

“She has the loveliest voice. Sweet, gentle, like a summer breeze.”

Mrs. Barrymore ceases humming. Stares at him. “Who do you mean? Who?”

“Our Queen. I met her once. I had an elder cousin who was an earl. He took me along for an audience once when I was a boy. She was younger then, and oh, so very pretty. She wore a splendid green dress and green gloves and she had a golden circlet on her brow.”

Mrs. Barrymore leans forward. Her hands are clutched together. Her eyes are large, dark, even lovely in this uncertain light. “You spoke to her?”

“Ah, a Queen is never spoken to. She spoke to me. I recall the words as if even now they are being whispered in my ear.”

“What did she say? Tell me. You must.”

“She said . . . she said that I must be good, that I must struggle against adversity. That I and all her subjects must make for themselves the best of what they have. To not forever long for what was and for what cannot be. I suspect she ascertained that I was distressed. I had recently lost my mother, you see, and . . .”

“She has nine children.”

“Yes.”

“What more? Tell me.”

Palace halls hung with damask and panels of carved ivory. Marble fountains. Shoes embroidered with golden thread. Topiary trimmed into the shape of griffins. He did see the Queen once. The royal carriage was being pulled along the Mall and Eugene, barely eight, saw her gloved hand flutter from the window and the shadowy outline of her face before the crowd drowned him. Yet he does not dissemble too greatly. His father as a knight did have the right of audience, though thank God he never exercised it. He would have been brought drunk and farting before her majesty, then fondled the handmaidens, sneered at the courtiers. They would have been banished then, to languish on some rocky isle à la Napoleon.